Tightrope
by Fang's Fawn
Summary: This story is a continuation of my story, "In Care Of." You'll need to read that first to understand how the characters got to where they are in this part of the tale.
1. Chapter 1

There had been no need for Dreamless Sleep Potion…almost before Madam Pomfrey had finished patching him up, Harry had fallen into the first really deep, restful sleep he'd had since before the Triwizard Tournament. He did not wake at all that he could remember, nor could he recall having any dreams but one…a fuzzy, vague sort of dream that Spartacus (or was it Snape?) had come and stood by his bed, watching over him with an expression that was somehow both concerned and…tender?

Dream or no dream, grief, pain, exhaustion and stress had worn Harry out; the release of emotion had relieved his burdens, if only temporarily, and he slept until almost nine o'clock the next morning. He might even have slept longer, had it not been for a warm weight on his chest, a persistent, soft hooting sound, and an impatient beak nibbling at his right ear.

Drowsily, Harry opened his eyes.

"Whazzit…" he fumbled for his glasses, blinked, and the white blur settled into shape in front of him.

"Hedwig!" Harry said joyfully, sitting up and gently drawing the extremely pleased snowy owl towards him. It was indeed his friend and familiar, and any vague misgivings he might have felt from having been deceived by Spartacus fled at once as she happily nuzzled his palm with her hooked beak. "You're all well again!"

"Yes, she is, quite well indeed," said a voice, and Harry looked up to find Dumbledore sitting in the squashy flowery armchair next to his bed, hands folded placidly in his lap. The old wizard looked tired, but his tone was cheerful. "She has been waiting for you to awaken for quite some time now, most eagerly, in fact, and with ever-waning patience. I do believe that, had I attempted to interfere with her determination to wait no longer, she might have become rather irritable."

Harry grinned and went on stroking the bird's satiny back. A not-uneasy silence fell between the young and the old wizards, which Dumbledore filled with aimless humming. As he came more awake, however, Harry felt his first flush of joy at seeing Hedwig, along with the peaceful feeling of having slept long and well, begin to ebb away as the events of the day before came crowding back to the forefront of his mind. He looked up, met Dumbledore's eyes briefly, flushed and quickly looked away again, trying to appear to be very intent on caressing his owl. When he'd seen the headmaster a month ago, Harry had trashed his office. The very next time, he'd cried on his shoulder. The man had seen for himself that Harry was unable to defend himself against his own muggle relatives. What must Dumbledore think of him?

But when the old wizard spoke, his voice held nothing other than the tenderest affection.

"You slept well, I trust, Harry?"

"Oh, yes sir…very well, thanks," Harry replied, feeling a bit relieved to have such a mundane question to answer.

"And your injuries…well on the mend, and no longer painful, I hope?"

This was a bit less comfortable to answer, but Harry found he could respond with a "Yes" in all honesty. There was a slight tenderness around his ribcage, and a few needlelike twinges in his back when he turned, but nothing more. Deeply relieved, he gave voice to something else that had him curious.

"Sir," Harry began hesitantly, "you said something last night about coming to fetch me from the Dursleys' this week."

"Ah, yes," the headmaster said briskly. "Indeed. This Friday at eleven p.m. I intend to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays – and, if you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance on an errand which I hope to perform on our way there."

"What would that be, sir?" Harry asked curiously.

Dumbledore smiled. "Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. I hope to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts, and I believe that you would be of some help if you were to accompany me to visit him."

Harry was bemused. "How could I help?"

"Oh, I think we could find a use for you," Dumbledore said vaguely, and Harry, sensing that the subject was closed for the moment, moved on to another question.

"It's only Monday now, sir. Where will I stay in the meantime?"

"You will remain here at Hogwarts," Dumbledore returned. "As far as staff members go, only myself, Professor Snape, Madam Pomfrey and Hagrid are in residence, and I believe the solitude can work to our advantage in getting you completely healed before you go to the Weasleys'. In addition, it will give me ample opportunity to discuss with you some plans I have regarding the furtherance of your education in the next year. I trust that you will not be averse to spending nights alone in the Gryffindor dormitory, and that you will remain in Gryffindor Tower and not go wandering?"

"Yes," Harry said quickly, only too relieved to learn that he would not be expected to spend his days in the hospital wing.

Dumbledore seemed to guess his thoughts, because he added, "You will, of course, need to report to Madam Pomfrey as often as she requests that she may be assured of your proper healing.

Harry groaned at this, and Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. Then he sobered again, and said gravely, "And now, Harry…I need to ask you a few questions about your life at your relatives' home, and I beg that you will be perfectly frank with me."

Harry's heart sank. He had known this conversation was coming, but that didn't make it any easier to face. Since there was no way to escape it, though, perhaps it was best to get it over with.

"All right sir," he said slowly. "I'm ready."

He wasn't sure he really was, but it seemed he had little choice.

Potter hadn't been the only one to oversleep himself. Snape, worn with exhaustion and fraught nerves, never stirred after settling himself, in bat form, among the rafters high above the boy's bed. One of the reasons he slept so soundly was the utter security he felt from being "home" at last in the castle, finally liberated from the oppressive atmosphere of the Dursley home. Snape had not realized until he was back just how unsafe he had felt in that tidy little house in a Surrey suburb. He thought of Potter, having to bear that tense atmosphere for months on end, with endless exhausting chores, emotional and verbal abuse, and the ever-present threat of physical abuse day after day. Snape wondered how the boy stood it without losing his sanity. Perhaps much in the same way that he himself had stood his summers at Spinner's End after his mother had died.

At any rate, Snape told himself that the reason he had chosen to sleep in the infirmary was so he could be sure to be on hand should Potter have any nightmares. He would not admit even to himself that the real reason was because he did not like to have the boy out of his sight.

Regardless, he had intended to be gone from the hospital wing long before anyone else was stirring. Instead, he was awakened by soft voices, murmuring somewhere down below. He froze when he recognized one of the voices as Dumbledore's.

Swiftly and silently, Snape crawled up the side of the heavy wooden beam he had been clinging to until he was on top of it. Now even less visible from below, he peered over the edge of the beam to Potter's bed below.

The boy was sitting upright, knees drawn up under the blanket, arms clasped loosely around them. He was not looking at Dumbledore, but staring down, seemingly fascinated by the striped pattern on the sleeves of his pajamas.

The headmaster was seated in the squashy armchair, feet on the floor, elbows on the chair arms, fingers steepled. Although his tone was quiet, Snape, with his bat's ears, could hear every word plainly.

"…anything besides a belt?" the old wizard was asking.

Potter hesitated. "No," he said finally, "just his hands."

"And with what part of his hand?" Dumbledore prompted gently.

The boy swallowed. "The back of his hand, mostly. Or the front of his hand, sometimes." He paused, then added in an even quieter voice, "Sometimes with his fist."

"Just any old way, is that it?" Dumbledore's voice was so calm and understanding, so filled with quiet sympathy, that someone who did not know him as well as Snape did would have missed the danger signs of the man's slowly building but carefully controlled rage.

"Yes, sir."

"I see." Dumbledore paused a moment (to compose himself, Snape guessed), then went on in that deceptively calm tone. "And those times when he –?"

"That wasn't all the time, sir," Potter interrupted hurriedly, glancing up, then down again. "Only when he was really, really angry."

"And what sort of offenses made your uncle…'really, really angry'?" Dumbledore probed quietly.

Potter thought a moment. "Accidental magic was a big one. And…it seems like every summer ends in some sort of disaster with him, and he…er, punishes me when I get home the next summer." The boy flushed suddenly and fell silent again.

Snape winced at this – what a thing to look forward to at the end of a busy school year: starting off the holidays with a good beating. Particularly for Potter, whose school years always tended to end on a distinctly spectacular note.

There was a very long pause this time. Snape, having withdrawn on the beam so that he was completely out of sight, waited nervously.

Finally, the headmaster sighed and said, "Thank you, Harry, for being truthful with me. I think that will do for now. Why don't you return to Gryffindor Tower – where I believe you will find your trunk waiting for you – get dressed, and make your way down to the kitchen for some breakfast? I'm sure Dobby will be only too delighted to see you."

"Thank you, sir," Potter said, sounding deeply relieved. He stood, then hesitated. "Sir…is it all right if I go to see Hagrid after breakfast?"

"I think Hagrid would be delighted." Snape could tell by his voice that Dumbledore was smiling.

The was a pause, then Potter asked hesitantly, "But what will I tell him, sir? Do I have to tell him about – about –"

Dumbledore interrupted him smoothly. "In Hagrid's case, Harry, I think the less said about your relatives, the better. Perhaps it would be wisest to inform him simply that I will be escorting you to the Burrow on Friday, and that in the meantime I have some topics of conversation to go over with you in the next few days regarding the new school year."

_Less said to Hagrid, the better, indeed,_ Snape thought ironically. He could imagine the half-giant's reaction to finding out the specifics of Potter's miserable home life, probably descending on Little Whinging in a very noticeable rage.

"That said," the headmaster continued, "I do hope you will decide at some point to confide in your friends, Harry. I will leave it up to you as to when, but I hope you know that their support could be very valuable to you – and that they would not think the less of you for it."

"Yes sir," Potter replied, and Snape could tell by his tone that the boy was none too eager to let anyone else know about what went on while he was in his "family's" care.

"Very well, then…off you go."

"Thank you, sir. Come on, Hedwig."

There was a flutter of wings, then Snape heard Potter's steps retreating from the room. The footsteps paused near the door, then the boy spoke again, his voice uncertain.

"Sir…about my…my family…you're…will you…I mean, you won't…?"

Snape winced again at the worry in the boy's tone. The fact that Potter would be concerned in the least over what happened to these monsters was heartbreaking – unless it was Dumbedore himself for whom the boy was fearful. Either way, Snape knew, this concern had to be painful for the old man to detect – though his voice was light when he replied.

"Never fear, Harry…I won't do anything too…_drastic_ to them, I assure you." The boy must have looked doubtful, because the headmaster added, "I promise."

There was a slight pause, then Potter said, "Right. Well…I guess I'll see you later, then, sir."

The heavy double doors to the infirmary swung shut. Snape waited for Dumbledore to leave, too, so he could flutter to the floor, transform, and slip back down to his dungeons, but the old man remained seated in his chair for a long time, a faraway expression on his face.

Finally, Dumbledore sighed, sat up a bit straighter, and called out, "Would you be so good as to come down here, please, Severus? I would like to speak with you."

Snape froze._ Damn! How does he do that?_

Resentfully, he launched himself from the beam, glided to the floor, and transformed. Dumbedore looked up at him, his eyes twinkling, and Snape glared back, gritting his teeth and refusing the man the satisfaction of asking how he had known Snape was there.

"I trust you slept well?" the old wizard asked in an overly innocent tone.

"Well enough," Snape replied tersely. He pulled out his wand, conjured up a maroon wing chair, and seated himself across from Dumbledore, elbows on the arms and fingers steepled in an unconscious mirror image of the headmaster's own attitude.

"Excellent," the old wizard said briskly. "And now may I ask what your plans for the day entail?"

Truthfully, Snape hadn't thought about it, but now that the question was put to him an idea that had slowly been forming in the back of his mind came to the forefront.

"I was thinking," he began slowly, hesitating, "that I might have a word with Potter about…Occlumency."

He paused, but Dumbledore merely raised one silvery eyebrow. "Indeed?"

"Yes. In light of…what I witnessed at the Dursley home, I realize more than ever the importance of teaching the boy to occlude his mind," Snape replied. _There. Let him make of that what he will._

"Indeed," Dumbledore repeated, and while the old man's voice was neutral, Snape looked up to see that his eyes were somewhat stern. "And do you believe that the continuation of Occlumency lessons would have a more beneficial outcome than was evident last year?"

Snape recognized the gentle rebuke for what it was and flushed with shame, saying only, "I think it might."

Dumbledore apparently recognized the sincerity in that simple statement, for his gaze softened as he nodded once approvingly. "Very well. I quite agree. I will leave you to arrange the matter with Harry, then."

Snape had rather hoped Dumbledore would speak to Potter about it himself, but he recognized at once that the headmaster had no intention of bailing him out. Well, so be it…he had created the mess; he could clean it up, and if the boy's trust in him was slow in coming, Snape knew he had only himself to blame.

Before he could wallow in self-recriminations, though, Dumbledore spoke again.

"I'm very pleased with you, Severus," the old wizard said. "I had hoped that you would agree to resume Occlumency lessons with Harry, and I am gratified to find that you have come to the conclusion that it would be prudent to try again without prompting from me."

Snape was annoyed with himself that, at the age of thirty-seven, he could not keep from flushing with pleasure at his mentor's praise. _I'm too old to go wagging my tail because my master gives me a pat on the head! _But it was more than that, and he knew it…and he knew also, perhaps, that sons in any form never truly outgrow a need to make their fathers proud.

Instead of acknowledging the praise, the potions master said only, "I will speak to the boy this evening." He then deftly changed the subject, asking, "And your plans for today, headmaster, may I be so bold as to inquire?"

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "Ah, now, I'm glad you asked." He smiled a little, but his eyes were hard. "I intend to pay a visit to Little Whinging this afternoon."

Snape felt a flutter of some emotion in his breast – savage satisfaction? concern? – but quickly suppressed it, merely commenting, "Indeed?"

"Yes." Dumbledore's blue eyes bore into Snape's black ones. "And before I depart, Severus, I have a request to make of you."

Snape waited.

"I would like you to share with me your memory of yesterday's events."

Snape stiffened, alarm bells going off in his head.

"Albus," he said slowly, "I don't think that would be a good idea."

Dumbledore simply looked at him, waiting.

Snape went on uncomfortably, "There's really no need for you to see it. That is," he faltered slightly, something that almost never happened, and dropped his gaze, "you've already seen the results. I don't see what…_reliving_ the events would do to…change anything."

Dumbledore considered this, gazing at his folded hands. When he spoke, his voice was slow, tentative.

"Fifteen years ago, I personally left Harry with his aunt and uncle, expressing my hope that they would raise him as their own. While I did not give them a chance to refuse his custody outright, I did leave Petunia Evans Dursley a way in which to contact me should the notion of raising her sister's child prove to be too…_onerous_ for her. I was certain she would refuse had I handed the child over to her in person; by leaving him abruptly on her hands, I hoped she would bond with him. When she did not contact me, I assumed, incorrectly, as it happens, that such bonding had occurred."

Snape waited, listening attentively.

Dumbledore sighed, then continued.

"I employed Arabella Figg to keep a close eye on the situation. Perhaps it would have been better to put another witch or wizard in this role of unofficial guard, but then there would have been Ministry involvement. Arabella's presence would, I knew, go unnoticed by Cornelius Fudge.

"Unfortunately, Arabella did not succeed in becoming as friendly with the Dursleys as I had hoped she would – not enough to have the inside view of Harry's life I would have liked, at any rate," the great wizard conceded. "She did see enough, in those early years before the boys began their schooling, to know that, rather than being treated as another son, Harry was seen as something of an interloper in the Dursley family, barely tolerated rather than welcomed, while the Dursley parents' affection was reserved exclusively for their son. She saw signs of neglect and even harshness, though nothing that could be construed as overt abuse by the casual observer. Arabella did _not_ see signs of injury beyond what might be attained through the normal, rough-and-tumble activities of early boyhood."

He paused again, and a spasm of pain crossed his wrinkled face. Snape knew the old man was thinking of injuries that might have been – must have been – hidden under the boy's baggy clothing over the years.

"Then there was Harry's own demeanor, giving the lie to his situation," Dumbledore went on after he had composed himself. "He did not behave like abused children I had encountered in my years as a teacher. He was tentative in his behavior, but not cowed; polite, not sullen. A Gryffindor born," the old man stated, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, though his eyes were weary and sad. "He made it very easy for me to miss the signs.

"And I did miss them. I was glad to miss them, I do not deny it." The old wizard sighed. "Such was the strength of the blood protection provided by his aunt through his mother's sacrifice that, when I became aware of the harshness and neglect, I was able to weigh it against his safety from Voldemort, and the scales did not even begin to tip. I was concerned – deeply – and distressed, but, as his spirit appeared to be indomitable, decided it would be less prudent to remove him."

Dumbledore sighed again, suddenly looking older than Snape had ever seen him, and, raising his hands to his face, rubbed his eyes under his glasses. When he lowered his hands again, those eyes were fixed on some distant point Snape could not perceive.

"And then when he arrived here at Hogwarts, and I began to get to know him," Dumbledore went on softly, "to know the pure heart that beat within this pale, undersized boy's breast, to know the sturdy, noble spirit that seemed immune to ugliness…" he shook his head once and trailed off. "I assumed too much. Or not enough, perhaps."

For several long moments the two men sat locked in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

Finally, Dumbledore gave himself a slight shake and sat straighter in his chair, gazing intently at Snape once more.

"I need to know," The old man said simply. "I need to know exactly what it was that I missed all these years while I was making my long-term plans for the greater good."

This last came out a bit bitterly, and Snape shivered a little. He understood why Dumbledore wanted to see, though he didn't feel it was necessarily a good thing for the old man to punish himself further. Without a word, he drew his wand and conjured up a small, glass bottle. He set the tip of the wand against his own temple, like a man about to commit suicide, and withdrew the long, silvery thread of memory from his mind. He wished briefly, as he maneuvered it into the glass bottle and stoppered it fast, that he could expunge it from his mind forever, then dismissed the wish as unworthy. He carried many painful memories, and he would not make things easier for himself by erasing them. They were his burden to bear.

Snape held the bottle close for a moment. "Before I give it to you, I would make one request."

"Name it," replied Dumbledore curiously.

"When you go to Surrey this afternoon, you will allow me to accompany you."

Dumbledore blinked in surprise. "I did not think you would be too eager to return there."

Snape wasn't, but he wasn't about to allow Dumbledore to go alone, not after he had viewed the memories Snape had just given him. He wanted to be there to make sure the old wizard did not go…_overboard_…in doling out retribution. The punishment of a bullying, brutish muggle, however deserved, did not measure up to Dumbledore's importance in the war – or the loss of the old man's reputation. Snape was one of the few who knew how Dumbledore's own father had finished his life, and he had no wish for his mentor to share the same fate.

Besides…a very Slytherinish part of his was looking forward to seeing Dursley get at least a part of what was coming to him.

"Very well," Dumbledore said finally, and Snape handed him the bottle.

Dumbledore stood, the bottle in his hand. He looked down at Snape.

"You will accompany me into the Pensieve?"

"No," Snape replied immediately. "I do not need to see it again, thank you."

Dumbledore nodded briefly, then swept from the room, his dark green robes swirling about him.


	2. Chapter 2

With so few staff members in residence, there were no formal meals served in the Great Hall like there were during term. Instead, the house elves set up a buffet on the long table in the kitchen that was situated directly beneath the staff table, and those few adults who remained at Hogwarts during the summer holidays would drift in as they felt like it from early to mid-morning and help themselves to the tea, muffins, fruit and toast the elves made available.

By the time Harry had showered and dressed, the last of the buffet had been taken away and most of the house elves had gone about their work around the castle (which, during the summer, they performed during daylight hours). Dobby, however, had remained behind at Dumbledore's suggestion and, being overjoyed to see Harry, not only presented him with an enormous breakfast, but kept him company whilst he ate, maintaining a constant stream of chatter the entire time.

Second cup of tea in hand, Harry sat half-listening to Dobby's enthusiastic descriptions of summer life at Hogwarts and the doings of his fellow workers. The other half of his mind was unwillingly dwelling on the conversation he'd had with Dumbledore in the hospital wing…and on the last few weeks he'd spent keeping Snape as a pet in Hedwig's cage.

Had he only dreamed that Snape had entered the hospital wing last night…had the man really come to stand by his bed, and watch him while he slept?

Harry's insides twisted uncomfortably as he remembered Snape tending his injuries in Dumbledore's office. He'd rarely felt so mortified…and so helpless. Despite the fact that Dumbledore had been with them, and that, deep down, he knew he could trust Snape, it had still been a horribly vulnerable feeling. Harry did not like to share his problems – particularly if they involved the Dursleys – with anyone.

And yet…Snape had not seemed to despise him for it. If anyone had asked him just yesterday morning, Harry would have said Snape was the last person he'd want to learn about his home life. He had been certain he could expect neither sympathy nor discretion from the potions master who had loathed him from day one, and that the man would only be too happy too taunt him about any weakness in front of his Slytherins.

Dumbledore's words from last night came back to Harry:

_"I want you to try to find it within yourself to give Severus another chance at earning your trust and goodwill…you may find this difficult to believe, but I am certain…that Professor Snape's perceptions of you have changed over these past weeks…I believe there is…buried treasure within Professor Snape…treasures that can, perhaps, be unearthed by kind and patient prospectors."_

Harry mentally sighed. Did he really believe that? Dumbledore's believing it did not necessarily make it true…the great wizard, for all his brilliance, had proven time and again that he was as fallible as the next man. Harry still had trouble taking in the fact that the headmaster had truly been unaware of his uncle's violence towards him; he believed the man and forgave him his negligence, but his ignorance shook Harry nonetheless. If Dumbledore was wrong about Harry's relatives, might he not also be wrong about Snape?

Then Harry remembered the potions master's hands moving over his face and back with as much skill as Madam Pomfrey might have shown…and with equal gentleness, showing a great reluctance to hurt him further. Yes, Dumbledore had been present…but Snape had not had to exhibit such care and concern, surely?

Harry pushed these thoughts away for the moment and stood up, telling Dobby he would see him later. Keeping his promise to Dumbledore would be easy, provided Snape kept his mouth shut and didn't go blabbering all of Harry's secrets to his Slytherins. It wasn't like he'd have Harry for an audience while he did it, anyway – Harry was positive he wouldn't earn an "Outstanding" in his potions O.W.L., so he would not be taking potions next term, the occlumency lessons were ended, and his time spent with Snape would, he was sure, be minimal.

_I won't have to see him much, _he thought, walking through the silent corridors toward the entrance hall, _and he owes me – I saved his life, sort of. He's been OK so far, and if we maybe just agree to leave each other in peace, that might be enough. Plenty for me, anyway._

Cheered by this thought, Harry allowed a spring to return to his step and began whistling. Perhaps, before going to see Hagrid, he'd take a walk down by the lake, first – it was one of his favorite places at Hogwarts; indeed, his favorite outdoor place apart from the Quidditch pitch; the sun was out, and the sight of the light on the water would be just what he needed to calm his spirit. Feeling better already, he swung around a corner and literally walked into Severus Snape.

"Excuse m– oh!" Harry gaped up at the dour-looking potions master, who was staring down at him with his black brows slightly raised. Harry immediately felt his face and neck grow warm, and for the first time thought seriously that giving up his dream to be an auror might well be worth not having to spend any more time in Snape's presence than he could possibly help. He wondered if he would ever again be able to look the man in the face without feeling embarrassed.

"Er…sorry, sir," Harry mumbled, ducking his head and moving around the potions master deftly. He got about ten yards farther down the corridor when Snape's voice rang out sharply: "Potter! Wait a moment."

Harry stopped at once, heart sinking, and stifled a small sigh. It had, perhaps, been too much to hope for that he would escape from almost running Snape down unscathed. Turning, he said reluctantly, "Sir?"

Snape seemed to hesitate, then slowly approached him. Harry struggled to keep a blank face and stared stubbornly down at his trainers. After a moment, the toes of Snape's boots entered his line of vision.

There was a slight, awkward pause, then Snape asked, "Where are you going?" To Harry's surprise, the tone did not seem to be accusatory.

"To see Hagrid," he replied, then added defensively, "Professor Dumbledore said I could."

There was another long pause, and, fearful that the man could tell he wasn't being completely forthcoming about his immediate plans, Harry added, "I was going to walk a bit by the lake first, though."

"I see." There was another long pause, then Snape began, "Would you…" and stopped.

Curious, Harry looked up – only to find that Snape hadn't been looking straight at him, either, instead focusing his attention on a painting of a snoring old wizard on the wall above and behind Harry.

"I will accompany you," Snape said abruptly, and, turning on his heel, strode ahead of Harry down the hallway. Disconcerted and unsure of how to respond, Harry hesitated, then followed.

* * *

As ill-at-ease as he felt in Snape's presence, Harry still found himself beginning to relax, the knot of tension that formed in his shoulders each summer slowly loosening. By unspoken mutual consent, he and Snape shunned the shady tree where once, long ago, James Potter and Sirius Black had tormented a young Slytherin student, instead wandering along the unshaded path which was overlooked by the Astronomy Tower. Despite the peacefulness of the late morning, a low-grade tension hummed in the air between the two wizards, emphasized by a silence that Harry felt no need to break, since it had not been his idea for Snape to come along.

After nearly a quarter of an hour, Snape did break it, finally, stopping abruptly and turning to face the younger wizard.

"Potter."

Harry waited nervously, careful to keep his expression neutral. Out of respect for Dumbledore and gratitude for Snape's healing him, he would not be hostile if he could help it…but neither would he open himself up to scorn or mockery. He had no idea what Snape wanted to say to him, but he thought it wise to be prepared for anything.

He was not, however, prepared for what Snape _did_ have to say.

"Have you been attempting to clear your mind before you go to sleep at night?"

Stunned, Harry just stared at him.

"Well?" Snape sounded impatient.

"Well…I…er…I hadn't thought about it," Harry stammered.

Snape seemed delighted for an excuse to pounce on him.

"Idiot boy! After everything that happened last term, you _still_ do not grasp the importance of learning to close your mind?" His tones were harsh.

Stung, Harry started to retort with a hot reply…then he thought of Sirius and, with a sigh, bowed his head. He deserved Snape's anger…someone's anger, anyway.

For a moment, the only sounds were the breeze through the tall grass on the lakeshore and the singing of a few birds. Then Harry said, "I thought we were done with occlumency, sir…I can't get the hang of it. Besides, you weren't going to teach me anymore, remember?" He looked up then, defiant.

To his surprise, Snape was not even looking at him. Belying the harsh tone, his features were carefully impassive, his gaze directed out over the lake. When he spoke, his voice was neutral.

"Lessons are to resume, Potter. Tonight at 8 o'clock."

Harry gaped at him. "Did Dumbledore say so?"

Pause. "I say so."

_Pity, then,_ Harry thought angrily, and replied coldly and at once. "No, thanks just the same."

Snape's gaze shifted to meet his, the brows drawing together dangerously.

"Don't be a fool," the potions master said sharply. "The reasons for learning are valid still – more so than ever. The headmaster agrees with me in this."

_Have they discussed this without me, like I'm some little kid not capable of making decisions of my own? _Harry thought furiously. Aloud, he said coldly, "It doesn't change the fact, professor, that I'm pants at occlumency. You said it yourself. What's the point of putting either of us through that?"

"You are not." Snape's voice was so quiet Harry was unsure he had heard him correctly. His anger ebbed away in his amazement.

"What?"

Then Snape looked at him.

"I said, you are not…unable to learn."

Nonplussed, Harry asked, "What makes you say that?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Tonight, Potter, my office. Eight o'clock. If you are late, I will come and fetch you." His tone made it abundantly clear that said fetching, should it prove necessary, would be distinctly unpleasant for Harry, and, spinning on his heel, he strode away toward the castle, billowing black robes making him more like…well, more like _Spartacus_ than ever.

Bemused, Harry stared after him.

_What the ruddy hell?_

* * *

Having passed the gargoyle guarding Professor Dumbledore's office, Snape paused at the top of the moving staircase to collect his thoughts before knocking on the door.

Unwillingly, his mind dwelled on the conversation he'd just had with Potter.

Over a decade spent teaching had not improved Snape's ability to cope with emotions. He had suffered too much himself to feel inclined to spare sympathy towards the petty sufferings associated with ordinary adolescent angst. As far as greater suffering went…well, he did not waste time whining himself, he certainly wasn't going to waste it listening to others whine.

Potter was overemotional, obviously, but he was not, Snape had to admit, a whiner. He did fear Snape, though – that much was clear. And while this definite knowledge might once have pleased Snape no end, now it…disturbed him. He did not want Lily's son to fear him.

What did he want, then?

Snape felt irritable and unsettled. He was not accustomed to feeling so divided within himself. On the one hand, he wanted to return to the relationship (or non-relationship) he'd had with Potter before; on the other, he felt an inexplicable urge to get to know the boy better…or, rather, at last, since he had to admit now that he had never really known him at all – despite having taught him for five years.

On the third hand…he and Potter had been forced into such an intimate situation, and both were feeling desperately uncomfortable about it. Potter's discomfort made Snape feel even more awkward, and, as always when he felt uncomfortable, his bitter, sarcastic side came out – which was not helping to alleviate the situation at all.

Last year's occlumency lessons had been a nightmare for both of them. Snape had resented being asked to give them, and would never have agreed to it in the first place had it been anyone other than Dumbledore who had done the asking. Despite all that was at stake, he admitted to himself now that he had not truly tried to help the boy make the lessons a success. Private tutelage could be bonding for teacher and student, and he had resisted with all his might the potential of such bonding occurring between Potter and himself.

It was so much easier being the boy's bat than his teacher.

Before he could further pursue this line of thought, Dumbledore's voice, muffled through the heavy oaken door, came to him.

"Severus, why are you standing out there? Please feel free to come in."

Snape stiffened, scowled, and entered the circular office.

The first thing he noticed was the stone pensieve placed squarely in the centre of Dumbledore's massive desk, the memories within it swirling idly like smoke. While Dumbledore was seated behind the desk, he was not facing the pensieve, but instead had swiveled his chair around so that he was facing the small table to his right. Approaching slowly, Snape looked over the top of the desk and saw that a chessboard, complete with enchanted pieces, stood on this table. The headmaster was bent over the board, studying the pieces intently. He addressed the potions master without turning to face him.

"I sometimes feel," the old man began conversationally, "that the last thirty years of my life have been spent locked in a cataclysmic chess match between Voldemort and myself."

Snape flinched slightly at Dumbledore's use of the Dark Lord's name. He tried but failed to ascertain from the man's light, easy tone if he had already viewed the memory of yesterday's events.

"Such a violent game, chess," Dumbledore went on musingly. "I know it seems tame enough – a pastime for educated men to while away a winter's afternoon over a glass of brandy, perhaps – but in truth, decisions are being made that alter the final outcome of the match. Losses are sustained, and sacrifices made. The players are generals with the power of life and death in their hands."

Snape stood watching, but could not see the old man's face.

"A mere game," Dumbledore said softly. He lifted the queen and held it loosely in his long fingers, contemplating it. "If I make a mistake and lose the match – no matter; I can always clear the board and play again, can I not? If a piece is lost, I may always have another chance." He put the piece down gently, then briefly covered his face with his hands.

When he looked up, Snape saw at once from the look on his haggard face that he had seen the memory.

"What right have I to make such decisions, when I am obviously capable of such disastrous mistakes?" the old man asked simply.

Snape slowly sank down in the chair opposite the desk. For a moment, the two wizards sat together in complete silence. A casual observer might have thought they were close friends who had gone beyond the need for speech to feel comfortable in one another's company.

Presently, Snape spoke.

"Albus…I wouldn't trade my position as a spy with yours as leader – unofficial or not – of this war. Nor would I feel easy about having anyone else in your position."

He hated how awkward and stilted it sounded, but hoped his heartfelt confidence would show through despite his difficulty in showing it.

Dumbledore sighed and rubbed his eyes, pushing his half-moon spectacles up with the heels of his hands.

"Whether I'm the best man for the job is, I think now, irrelevant, Severus. Suffice to say that – at this point in time, at least – I appear to be the only man for the job." He sighed again. "I do wonder, though, if perhaps I am not too old for it after all. It is bad enough when evil cannot be prevented. But when my mistakes cause evil to occur to others, evil that can be prevented…" He sighed heavily, shook his head, and rose to his feet.

"Well…it seems that I must converse with the family of one of my students about that student's well-being while at home." The old man smiled grimly. "Do you still care to accompany me, Severus?"

Snape nodded and stood also, approaching the desk as the headmaster slid the pensieve to one side, then waved his wand over a large, amethyst-plated quill topped with a peacock feather. It began to glow slightly.

"We will portkey to Arabella Figg's house, and from there proceed to the Dursley residence," Dumbledore said coolly. "I am confident that these people will come away from our encounter well-acquainted with what they can expect when one of my students is harmed."

Snape stepped forward, both grimly pleased and slightly…wistful. He was a grown man, of course, while Potter was a mere boy…naturally Dumbledore would worry more over the boy. And if the boy's abuse at the hands of his relatives was spotted while Severus's own at the hands of his father's was not…well, that didn't mean that Dumbledore cared less for him than he did for Potter. Surely.

Snape sighed slightly, mentally chastising himself for indulging in such petty thoughts. As he reached toward the portkey, however, Dumbledore took hold of his wrist. Startled, Snape's black eyes met the headmaster's blue ones.

"Severus," Dumbledore said gently, "I made this same mistake with you…overlooking what was happening to you at home. I would give everything I possess to be able to rectify it. I hope you know that."

Snape blinked, then nodded mutely. Dumbledore released his wrist, and the two wizards stood, hands poised above the quill.

"On three, then," Dumbledore said briskly. "One…two…three!"

And, as he took hold of the feathered end of the quill, Snape thought how ridiculous it was that he should feel so comforted by the old man's reassurances and expressions of affection. He was an adult; he should not need such ego-stroking. He already knew how Dumbledore felt, anyway.

Still, he admitted to himself as the portkey swept them away, it was strangely good to be reminded.


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Figg nearly fell off her back patio when Snape and Dumbledore landed in her garden.

"Albus!" she cried, jerking upright to keep from spilling the dish of cat food she had been in the act of putting down. "You did give me a fright! I had no idea you were coming today…you should have given me warning; I would have prepared tea for you."

"My apologies, Arabella," Dumbledore said complacently, straightening his robes. "I'm afraid this isn't a social call…Professor Snape and I have an errand to perform at Number 4."

"At Harry's? Why, whatever's the matter?" the old woman asked with a worried frown.

Snape had to bite his tongue to keep from making an acid remark about foolish old women who could not see a bad situation when it was right in front of them. Dumbledore must have sensed this, for he gave the younger man a quelling look before replying courteously to Mrs. Figg, "Nothing that we can't take care of ourselves, Arabella…oh, and your guard duties for the summer have come to an end, as Harry will be in residence at the Burrow for the remainder of the summer. I would, however, encourage you to keep an eye out for strangers in the area."

Dumbledore turned to Snape, and, with a few twirls of his wand, cast a notice-me-not charm over the pair of them so they could approach the Dursley home in their wizarding garb without drawing attention.

"Usually, I adopt muggle-style clothing when speaking to muggle parents and guardians in an effort to set them at their ease," the old man said with a slightly bitter smile as they made their way across the street. "Today, however, I do not feel inclined to be so…accommodating."

"Nor do I feel inclined to disagree with you, headmaster" Snape replied. _Far from it._

Snape did not know precisely what to expect when Dumbledore knocked on the door to Number 4. Vernon Dursley _should_ have been at his place of employment at this hour, but Dumbledore had chosen the time, and Snape knew better than to think that the old man would not have considered this. He therefore was not surprised when Dursley himself answered the door – but he _was_ surprised at the muggle man's reaction when he saw them.

"It's about ruddy time you got here," Dursley hissed, has face purpling at once and his bushy moustache bristling. "Get in here at once before someone sees you!"

Each wizard raised an eyebrow at the other, and then proceeded into the painfully neat house.

Dursley led them into the living room, and then spun around to face them, looking furious. He did not invite them to sit down, which was fine with Snape.

"It's about damn time!" Dursley snapped again. "I told that other lot of freaks that my son needed to be put right, but after they finished with me they left – never even gave me a chance to explain things, and now just _look_ at my Dudley!"

Snape and Dumbledore turned to follow the direction of Dursley's shaking finger and beheld a battered hamster cage sitting on a polished sideboard and containing a fat, blonde guinea pig. Snape cast a half-apologetic, sidewise look at Dumbledore and was reassured to see the old man's moustache quivering with mirth. Snape allowed himself a very, very slight smile in response.

Despite his apparent obtuseness, Dursley missed neither wizard's reaction.

"Think it's funny, do you?" The big man snarled, moustache bristling. "His poor mum's upstairs in bed; the doctor had to give her a sedative! And what are we supposed to do with a rodent for a son, I ask you?!"

The guinea pig spotted Snape, let out a terrified squeal, and attempted to bury itself under its bed of shredded newspaper. Unlike his father, who, last night, had been too intent upon Potter to react to Snape's lightning fast attack, the boy-turned-guinea pig apparently had no trouble recognizing the black-eyed potions master.

"Well, it _is_ rather entertaining," Dumbledore noted gravely. "I must say, Severus…this is a very nice bit of transfiguration. Minerva would be proud – as, indeed, I am myself."

Snape, flattered, inclined his head in acceptance of the compliment from the former transfiguration professor. Dursley, clearly not overburdened with intelligence, merely appeared confused by this exchange.

The ministry officials had patched the man up quite well, Snape thought, studying the muggle closely. Ah, well…nothing that couldn't be re-inflicted.

Dumbledore had other ideas, though.

"I think, Mr. Dursley, it would be wise if we were to all sit down. We have a few matters we need to discuss with you regarding your nephew," the old man said pleasantly.

Dumbledore seated himself in a rather fussy-looking armchair and motioned Snape to the sofa. He then flicked a wand in Dursley's direction, and the man was shoved down onto an uncomfortable-looking hard chair as though by an invisible hand.

The muggle looked furious and terrified at the same time. He made no sound, but simply stared at Dumbledore until Snape thought his eyes might pop out.

Dumbledore serenely rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers together, wand at the ready in his lap.

"Although I have corresponded with your wife in the past, this is, of course, the first time you and I have met," the old wizard began pleasantly. "I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry which is, of course, where your nephew Harry attends classes. This," here Dumbledore indicated Snape, who had taken up a position on the end of the sofa directly opposite the old man's right hand, "is Professor Snape, one of Harry's teachers."

"Now look here," Dursley began, seemingly more confident now that Dumbledore's wand was not actually in his hand. "I don't care a damn who you are, or what you have to do with the boy…when he's not in this house, he's not my concern. I don't know where he is – if you're looking for him, he's probably off with that freak murderer of a godfather of his, go find him."

"We are not concerned with Harry's whereabouts, Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore said calmly. "In fact, I am sure it will relieve you to learn that he is, at this moment, safe and sound at Hogwarts.

Dursley, Snape noticed, fell silent at this, and looked warily into the headmaster's face, flushing. Dumbledore's eyes bore into the muggle's with icy intent.

"Yes," the old man said softly. "I can see you are quite, _quite_ relieved."

There was such quiet menace in his voice that even Snape shivered, the way you're supposed to when someone walks over the place where your grave will be. There was a pause in which he could almost feel the muggle's heartbeat begin to hammer.

"I regret to inform you, however," Dumbledore continued coolly, "that Harry was in a less than…shall we say, _optimum_ condition when he arrived. I'm sure it will distress you greatly to learn that he had been beaten most severely with a belt. He was also sporting other injuries that appeared to have been inflicted with malicious intent."

Dursley nervously fiddled with the belt he was wearing now, black this time instead of the brown one Snape had destroyed last evening. His beet-red face drained of colour so fast, the potions master thought he might faint.

He hoped the muggle wouldn't though. Dealing with him would be much less fun if he were unconscious.

"Would you care to share with Professor Snape and myself your opinion as to who might wish to harm Harry in this way?" Dumbledore continued, his light tone not fooling Snape in the slightest.

Dursley, however, clung to the apparently pleasant tone like a beacon of hope.

"How would I know what the boy gets up to when he's not here," he demanded. "Probably that one of your lot who took him off last night did it. Maybe he cheeked that freak godfather of his and he took him up for it…probably had it coming, I expect. Anyway, you can bloody well take it up with him."

This confirmed what Snape had already suspected: that Potter had _not_ confided in his relatives regarding Black's death. Not that Snape blamed him, certainly.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, eyed Dursley keenly.

"So you deny, Mr. Dursley, that _you_ had anything to do with Harry's…condition?"

Snape felt the small hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. Dursley was fooled completely by Dumbledore's benign smile and pleasant, almost cheerful voice. Only Snape detected the steel behind both the look and the tone.

"If the boy told you that, I'm not surprised…he's a filthy little liar," Dursley's tone was both confident and slightly smug, as though conveying a bad opinion about Potter was a pleasure for him. Which no doubt it was, Snape thought. It was a pleasure he had often indulged in himself in the past.

"Is that right?" Dumbledore said pleasantly. "Well, it should be easy enough to ascertain – _legilimens_!"

Even Snape hadn't been prepared for Dumbledore's sudden movement. As the wand came up, Dursley jerked back in his chair, stiffening like a man suffering from an extreme strychnine fit. His eyes bulged, and his moustache bristled as though he'd received an electric shock. His frozen expression was one of extreme horror.

Snape understood instantly what the headmaster was doing. Far from needing further proof of the abuse Harry Potter had suffered at the hands of his relatives, Dumbledore was replaying it vividly in Dursley's mind, showing the man the futility of trying to hide it from any wizard.

Snape knew that the weak-minded muggle man, would have no chance at all at concealing his thoughts from Dumbledore. His guilty conscience, faced with exposure, would have all these memories at the forefront of his mind, there for any wizard at all skilled at legilimency to simply pluck like an overripe berry.

Seconds after initiating the link (though to Dursley, Snape was sure, it must have seemed like hours), Dumbledore broke it. He lowered his wand again and watched impassively as the fat man fell limply back in his chair, gasping for breath, his wide eyes staring at the ceiling. The look in the old wizard's eyes was harsh and cold, and Snape wondered uneasily what else he had seen in that cruel, brutish man's mind.

When Dursley had got his breath back, he shifted his wide, panicked eyes nervously from one wizard to the other. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to think what to say.

_He looks like a fish out of water,_ Snape thought dispassionately.

"I…you…that's some sort of trick you did!" Both terrified and outraged, the man's voice came out in squeak.

Dumbledore merely raised his silvery eyebrows, never moving his blue eyes from Dursley's face.

The muggle's own face, which had gone frighteningly pale, now began to colour again. He got to his feet unsteadily.

"Now look here," the man hissed, getting his bravado back. "We never wanted that boy. You dumped him on our doorstep, as good as abandoned him, with just a ruddy note and no way for us to give him back, which you damn well know. Now you…you _freaks_ barge into my house, attack me with your freakishness, and dare to tell me how to raise him? We didn't want the whelp, but you foisted him off on us…well, then, he's my responsibility and I'll raise him as _I_ see fit, do y'hear?"

Dumbledore, making no move to regain his own feet, regarded Dursley calmly.

"It appears that I have, indeed, made a serious error in judgment when choosing Harry's guardians," the old wizard said serenely. "Perhaps I was overly optimistic in my belief that an orphaned nephew would be welcomed with love and sympathy into the home of his mother's only sister and her husband."

Dumbledore's gaze shifted slightly so that he shot a brief glance over Dursley's shoulder, and, following his line of vision, Snape saw what the old man had seen: Petunia, looking white and shaky, had come silently down the stairs and now hovered in the doorway to the living room, leaning heavily against the jamb as though she could not stand without it.

"Although I believe I _am_ safe in assuming," the headmaster continued, returning the full force of his gaze to Vernon Dursley, "that, had your positions been reversed, Lily and her husband would have raised your son with love, treating him in every way as they would their own."

"As if we'd leave our Dudders to be raised by freaks," Dursley muttered, but Snape saw Petunia blanch and raise a shaky hand to her throat, what little colour her face still possessed leaking away like air from a pricked balloon.

"Quite," Dumbledore acknowledged, inclining his head. "But that is neither here nor there. The issue at hand, Mr. Dursley, is your appalling conduct toward Harry…and the fact that you seem to be under the mistaken impression that you can abuse a child with impunity."

Petunia's eyes swiftly darted to her husband, and Dursley himself went from red to white with alarming speed.

"You think you can threaten me?" the muggle whispered hoarsely. "That boy won't come back here…I'll chuck him and his freaky things out if you send him back, and those wards or whatever-you-call-them will disappear–"

"Harry _will_ be coming back here next summer," Dumbledore interrupted smoothly, raising his voice slightly.

Shocked and outraged, Snape twisted around to face the headmaster, opening his mouth to protest angrily. Dumbledore, his eyes never leaving Dursley's, raised his hand, and it was only his habit of long obedience to this man that stopped Snape from breaking in.

"He _will_ be returning here next summer," Dumbledore continued as though there had been no interruption, "along with a number of extra safeguards in place that will protect him from you and your family – safeguards that I, regrettably, had never considered him to be in need of in the past."

The old wizard paused then, his gaze turning inward and his expression pensive. He sighed slightly, then looked up again at Dursley…and this time his look was so harsh and furious that Snape suddenly remembered the blown-out windows in the hospital wing and drew back involuntarily.

"And as far as threatening you goes, Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore continued, rising to his feet, "the situation has gone beyond that."

Dursley staggered backward, his hand groping behind him for the small, heavy lamp on the table beside his chair. Snape immediately pulled out his own wand and the muggle froze.

"I wouldn't do that," Snape said silkily, also rising to his feet. "Not unless you want me to transform your son into a true pig once and for all."

Dursley turned bulging eyes to him.

"You…you're the freak who attacked us yesterday," he whispered in horror.

Snape inclined his head in acknowledgement as Dumbledore moved forward, again claiming Dursley's attention.

"I have three reasons for not killing you outright, Mr. Dursley," the old wizard said smoothly. "First, I do believe people are capable of changing and growing for the better…however ludicrously unlikely it might seem in some cases," he acknowledged.

Snape shifted uncomfortably at this, but Dumbledore didn't look at him.

"Secondly, Harry has further need of you, and I will restrain myself – indeed, move heaven and earth, if I must – to keep him safe.

"Lastly…I am a firm believer that there is less to fear from a quick death than from other situations, and I confess that, forbearing as I can be, I feel vengeful enough that I find the idea of such an outcome for you to be…well, shall we say, _unsatisfying_."

At that, Dumbledore's bright blue eyes seemed to darken to navy, his silver brows drew together over his crooked nose, and he moved his wand downward in a sudden, vicious half-arc that incorporated a short and brutal jab toward Dursley's chest.

There was a moment of silence – then the muggle emitted a single, drawn-out, earsplitting howl that made the hair on the back of Snape's neck stand up and his heart lurch into overdrive. Durlsey began to dance on the spot, positively yowling with pain like a scalded cat as his fat hands swatted ineffectually at this own shoulders.

"_Vernon_!" Petunia ran to her husband. The rotund man was twisting madly as though a snarling, clawing leopard had landed on his shoulders and he was trying to throw it off with little success. He seemed completely unaware of his wife, who faced Dumbledore and cried out, "What have you done to him?!"

Between her shrieking and her husband's howling, the noise was deafening. Snape resisted the urge to cover his ears, feeling it would appear undignified. Mercifully, Dumbledore cast a silencing charm on both Dursleys, then immobilized the man.

The old wizard drew near the stricken couple, who, helpless, silent and frozen, could only gaze up at him in terror. Dumbledore's unforgiving eyes bore into those of Vernon Dursley. When he spoke, his voice was so cold Snape almost fancied he could discern a chill fog drifting from his mouth, as though it were a morning in the dead of winter instead of an early summer afternoon.

"The injuries on your body, Mr. Dursley, are – weal for weal, bruise for bruise, wound for wound – identical to those I witnessed on Harry's own body within the past twenty-four hours. You may be thankful that I spared you the trauma of inflicting them in the same manner in which you applied them to your nephew."

Snape noted that Dursley did not look particularly thankful – but, then again, he _was_ immobilized. Somehow the potions master doubted that would make little difference to the muggle, though.

Dumbledore then turned to Petunia, who shrank back at once. The old wizard raised his wand. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating, and then performed a series of intricate movements with the wand that were small and precise. He muttered a complex incantation under his breath.

When Dumbledore lowered his wand, Snape felt puzzled. Petunia also looked stunned, for it appeared as though nothing had happened. Dumbledore did not seem in the least perturbed by this, however, and instead turned to the hamster cage on the sideboard, making one broad, sweeping gesture over it with his wand. The guinea pig inside glowed yellow briefly, then settled back into normality.

The silencing charm released, Petunia found her voice. "What did you…why hasn't he changed back?"

"He will," Dumbledore said simply. "On the day before he is scheduled to return to school. Perhaps spending the next eight weeks as a guinea pig will give him a new awareness of what it is to be wholly dependent upon the kindness of others."

"But…he'll be like this all summer?! We had planned a holiday to Majorca with Marge, and – what about me? What did you do to me?" Petunia's voice trembled somewhere between outrage and terror.

Dumbledore merely looked at her. "You will find out tonight. As will your husband, since his punishment has but begun. I bid you good day, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley. Come, Severus."

And with that, the old wizard inclined his head, turned, and left the house, Snape moving swiftly to catch up.

* * *

The walk across the street was made in silence. Not until they were in front of Mrs. Figg's home did Snape finally speak.

"Why, Albus?"

Dumbledore did not pretend to not know what the younger wizard meant.

"Why did I indicate I would send Harry back to that place, you mean? I sincerely hope I will not have to." He did not look at Snape as he spoke.

"But _why_," Snape said, striving to keep his voice calm, "would you even _consider_ sending the boy back there? Surely we can manage his safety effectively ourselves, even without the blood wards."

He did not even notice that he had said "we," and not "you." If Dumbledore noticed, he refrained from comment. Instead, he merely replied to the question, with the air of a man choosing his words carefully.

"I do not intend that Harry shall return to this house ever again, if there is any way to avoid it," said the old wizard slowly, his keen blue eyes fixed on Number 4. "If it happens that he must, I will do everything in my power to shield him from his relatives, even if I have to stay with him myself."

Somewhat reassured, Snape pressed, "But why even consider it? His safety–"

"_His_ safety, should the wards here fail, is not what concerns me now, Severus," Dumbledore interrupted, turning his gaze back to the potions master. "It is yours."

Snape stared at him, flabbergasted.

"_Mine?"_

"Yours. Has it occurred to you what Voldemort could learn from these muggles, should the failed wards grant him access to them, about Harry's life here – and about you?"

Snape opened his mouth, then closed it. It was true – both Petunia and the Dursley boy had had a good look at him last night. The muggle boy had even witnessed him transforming. Seeing through their eyes, the Dark Lord would have enough evidence to divine his resident spy's loyalties once and for all – nor would he be at all happy with what he learned. There was, of course, no way this could be allowed to happen; the wards would have to be kept intact, for Potter's safety and for the muggles' – or, rather, for the safety of the sensitive information they held within their minds.

After a moment of silence, Snape began, without much hope, "A memory charm–"

Dumbledore interrupted, "Would be less than useless, Severus. Bertha Jorkins alone is sufficient proof of Voldemort's ability to break through them."

Snape winced. Yes, the Dark Lord would break through any barriers placed around the weak minds of the muggle family and extract from them what he wanted as though the information they held were truffles in a chocolate box.

Snape lowered his gaze, feeling…ashamed, suddenly. If he had not intervened last night to take his revenge on the muggles for their abuse of Lily's son–

Even without looking into Snape's eyes, his mentor seemed to read his thoughts.

"Severus, you could do no less than what you did," Dumbledore said gently. "I flatter myself – and you, I might add – that there are few wizards with as much self-control as you and I possess, and I confess that I would have been unable to sit by and see Harry so treated without intervening…no matter what the circumstances."

Snape allowed himself a small sigh. "I confess I do not feel I could have done anything differently, but–"

"Nor do I feel you could have," Dumbledore cut in briskly. He straightened and pulled out a pocket watch with tiny planets rotating around its face instead of numbers.

"It's just past four o'clock," he said cheerfully. "Let us return to the school for some much-needed mental relaxation before dinner…and I believe you have a lesson tonight for which you must prepare?"

Snape had not mentioned this, but was unsurprised by the headmaster's astuteness.

"I am prepared," he said evenly.

"Excellent! Then let us bid Arabella good day and be on our way."

But Snape was unsatisfied with the day's work and detained him with a hand on his arm.

"Wait…headmaster…do you feel you have…disciplined those muggles…_adequately_ for their years of ill-treatment towards a wizard child?"

The smile faded from Dumbledore's face, to be replaced with a hardness of expression rarely seen on those benign features.

"The spell I performed upon Vernon Dursley is not a one-time occurrence, Severus," the old man said grimly. "Once he has healed of his injuries, they will immediately be replaced by others – all of which he himself had inflicted upon Harry. As for Petunia, tonight she will dream of these assaults by her husband on an innocent child – only, instead of reliving them exactly as they occurred, she will instead see her own son in place of Harry. This will, perhaps, one would hope, awaken her to the crime she committed against her deceased sister; I do believe I spoke truly when I said that Lily would have welcomed her sister's orphaned child with love."

Snape considered this. He thought of the way Dursley had wailed like a banshee under the exact same injuries Potter had taken without a murmur, and his lip curled. He was really impressed.

"You have, indeed, given them a lengthy punishment."

Dumbledore inclined his head. "Not lengthier, I trust, than they deserved. I congratulate myself that I was able to refrain from doing something…Unforgiveable."

Snape smiled grimly. "Without your restraining presence, I doubt I would have been able to refrain, myself."

"You don't give yourself enough credit, Severus," Dumbledore said courteously, though his eyes twinkled. "Well, I think we've covered everything…come, let us be off."

Chuckling, the two wizards made their way into Mrs. Figg's house.

* * *

Neither of them was aware that, outside the wards around Privet Drive, Bellatrix Lestrange was quietly stalking Piers Polkiss.


	4. Chapter 4

The clock in the east tower rang seven times. Thanks to the lengthening summer days it was still light outside, but Harry lay on his side in his bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around his shins. It was not soreness in his newly healed back that caused him to lie thus, unmoving, but nerves.

For the third time in as many days, Harry found himself feeling sick with dread.

Until this moment, he had not recognized that his fear of an upcoming occlumency lesson was similar to what he felt when he knew he was in trouble with Uncle Vernon. The knowledge that, in an hour's time, he would be forced to submit himself to the whim of an unsympathetic adult, to allow himself to be hurt by authority figure who hated him, who wanted to hurt him and would gladly do so without mercy or regret, was sickening in the extreme.

Unbidden, Dumbledore's words from last night again filled his mind:

"…_I am certain, Harry…that Professor Snape's perceptions of you have changed over these past weeks."_

But against these hesitant, sincere and reassuring words were five years of belittling, humiliation, insults, and icy sneering indifference to overcome.

What to believe? Dumbledore's wisdom, which, though prodigious, had proven fallible in the past, or Harry's own perceptions, which had let him down so severely when it came to saving Sirius?

It was unanswerable.

Given the choice between what he had endured at Uncle Vernon's hands yesterday and an occlumency lesson from Snape, Harry thought he'd prefer dealing with his uncle. He knew how to escape his uncle mentally; to emotionally detach himself so that the pain, at least temporarily, was far away, and Uncle Vernon could not reach him. Snape, on the other hand, would attack his mind instead of his body, and Harry would have nowhere to run: he would be vulnerable; at the man's mercy in a way he never was with his uncle no matter how hard or often the man hit him. Harry found physical pain much easier to bear than mental or emotional pain.

As the clock chimed the first quarter hour, Harry turned restlessly onto his other side. He could just skive off, he supposed, and he seriously considered it, but Snape's warning that he would come and fetch him should Harry be late rang in his ears, and he knew it was no good. Long experience had told him that it was pointless to try to resist something unpleasant, and that doing so only led to greater suffering in the end. There was no point in trying to resist.

And, really, _should_ he resist? He didn't want anyone else ending up like Sirius because he didn't try hard enough. But it was more than just trying…Harry was sure he couldn't learn occlumency, but, more to the point, Dumbledore _wanted_ him to learn it, and to learn it from Snape. That was, in Harry's book, more than enough reason to try.

The bell in the east tower chimed quarter to seven. No point in being late. Harry slowly sat up and started for the door. Realizing he was dragging his feet, he gave himself a mental shake and straightened, head high, and headed for the dungeons.

It was nothing he hadn't gone through before, after all.

* * *

Harry Potter was not the only one nervously anticipating the continuation of occlumency lessons. In his dungeon office, Severus Snape sat at his desk, back straight, elbows on the flat surface before him, hands folded with the forefingers steepled and pressed to his lips. Though his obsidian eyes appeared to be fixed on the door opposite the desk at the far end of the room, a close observer might have caught the inward expression that hinted that his attention was occupied by matters within.

At the very moment that Harry Potter was remembering Dumbledore's words from the night before, Snape was also thinking of something the old man had said to him:

"_When you put your mind to it, Severus, you are a very, very, good teacher."_

How many times over the past fifteen years had Dumbledore said those words to him? Too many to count Snape realized. Sometimes the tone in which the aging wizard had said them was warm and approving, other times it was chiding, at still others it was weary and even a little impatient (as it had been last winter, when Snape had bitterly complained about Potter's ineptitude during their private tutorials). But he always said them like he believed them with all his heart, and Snape had no doubt the old man did believe that he, Snape, was a superior instructor.

He was not sure he himself believed it.

It was not that he did not know his subject. A gifted wizard not only in potions, but in many disciplines, Snape had pushed himself hard to develop his potential, and continued to study to keep his skills current and up-to-date. This was, perhaps, where his great failing as a teacher lay: as a student, his work ethic had rivaled that of Hermione Granger (though with a more creative flair and willingness to experiment than the muggle-born girl possessed), and he had little patience with pupils unwilling to work. Like most teachers, he appreciated natural aptitude, but he also passionately despised laziness, carelessness and inattention. This was why he refused to accept students who had achieved less than "outstanding" on their OWLs, into his NEWT classes. The students who did best with him were generally the ones who were discerning enough to see past his snide exterior to the genuinely high standards he held, and who strove to earn his respect, not for favors or points, but because they valued it for itself, as a hard-won prize.

Admittedly, there had been few of these over the years.

Snape's main difficulty in his relationships with others stemmed mostly from his lack of empathy, or perhaps a lack of imagination. He was an individual who had always had powerful motivations: the motivation to be better than his base, bullying father; the motivation to make his loving but cowed mother proud; the motivation of growing strong with power. He was both single-minded and single-hearted, choosing a course and following it religiously, right or wrong. He was a man who did not change his mind easily. He had been utterly unable to relate to his peers, the majority of whom had had normal lives with loving, healthy families.

Now, Potter.

In truth, Snape had been resentful when Dumbledore asked him to tutor the boy in occlumency. He had, unwillingly, recognized the need for the boy to learn, but he had had no desire to be his teacher. He had to put up with the brat enough in potions class as it was.

Few occlumens were as accomplished as Snape, Dumbledore, and Voldemort himself. Voldemort was obviously out as a teacher, but Snape was suspicious of Dumbledore's reluctance to train Potter himself. The old wizard's logic had been sound (_when is it not?_ he thought snidely), but Snape more than half-suspected that he was using the situation as an opportunity to once again attempt to change Snape's mind about Potter, to manipulate him and the boy into a friendship, perhaps even a mentor relationship. This suspicion brought out Snape's stubborn side, and he became more determined than ever to resist intimacy with Potter.

In addition, the mean-spirited part of him, the part that held on to his hate for James Potter with both fists, had _wanted_ the boy to fail at occlumency. Snape was intelligent, diligent and accomplished, but, unlike James, apart from potions, certain subjects had not come naturally to him. He had succeeded through hard work, sometimes spending hours poring over a lesson yet achieving no higher grade than James, who might only have glanced over the material half an hour before class. His jealousy of this ability knew no quarter. The idea of James's son giving a less-than-stellar performance in class satisfied a mean, ugly part of Snape that had bitterly resented the ease with which the elder Potter had mastered certain subjects — in particular, Defence Against the Dark Arts, for which his son also showed an aptitude. Secretly, Snape had feared that the boy would exhibit natural aptitude in occlumency, forcing the potions master to relive his misplaced feeling of inferiority.

After all, the boy _had_ been the catalyst of the Dark Lord's fall. And he had indeed shown an amazing ability to resist the Imperius curse—this indicated that mastery with occlumency should naturally follow. It had given him great pleasure to report to Dumbledore, with many protestations about the validity of his own efforts, that it had not.

Snape finally had to admit to himself what he had been denying to Dumbledore, Lupin and other Order members for so long — that he had indeed, sometimes subconsciously (or so he told himself), sometimes not, deliberately sabotaged Potter's occlumency lessons. Now, with an altered outlook and the recommencement of the lessons before him, Snape knew he had unwittingly made his job even harder. Trauma in a lesson and a harsh teacher could lead to mental blocks that would cause a student to stumble ere he even re-entered the classroom, and the likelihood that Potter would come to him now with confidence in his ability to learn was very unlikely indeed. The boy's words, spoken by the lake earlier that day, came back to him now:

"_It doesn't change the fact, professor, that I'm pants at occlumency. You said it yourself. What's the point in putting either of us through that?"_

Snape had not needed legilimency to know that the boy believed it with all his heart.

In just a few minutes, Potter would be coming to him (he hoped — it would not bode well for the success of the lessons if Snape was forced to make good on his threat to bodily force the boy), feeling tense, resentful, and convinced of ultimate failure. Snape knew he had only himself to blame for this, but he pushed self-recrimination aside in favor of addressing the task before him.

It was time to justify Dumbledore's faith in his teaching ability.

* * *

The knock came at five minutes to eight, Snape was relieved to note. Reminding himself to look and listen with the eyes and ears of a teacher, he straightened in his chair and looked toward the door.

"Enter."

Potter came in, quietly closed the door behind him, and turned to face Snape. That closed-off expression his face had worn the day before when he'd finally come to realize that his pet bat was indeed his least favourite teacher, was back full force. He shuffled uneasily, and seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. His eyes met Snape's, then looked down.

Against his will, Snape felt his lips tighten with displeasure at the sight of James's face. He fought down the bitter, knee-jerk reaction to interpret the worst from what he saw and instead forced himself to survey the teenager before him with a more detached and critical eye.

The boy stood straight and stiff. His face was carefully expressionless, the green eyes dark and wary. He folded his arms across his chest, the shoulders hunched slightly forward. His gaze, Snape noticed, was not directed at his teacher, but at the surface of the desk.

Yes. It would be easy to interpret that stance as bored defiance, but now Snape saw it for what it was — a defensive posture. The expression on the face, the reluctance to look Snape in the eye, was not sullen resentment, as Snape might once have thought, but a pathetic attempt to hide raw emotion — including fear — from someone who would exploit it.

Uneasy with the silence, Potter said uncomfortably, "I'm here for our lesson, sir."

Snape did not reply, but instead studied the boy for so long that Potter looked up, then down again, squirming a bit.

Snape frowned slightly.

_He looks the way he did just before his uncle beat him yesterday, and no wonder. Every time he has been in this office, it was to face my wrath, serve a detention, or suffer through a disastrous occlumency lesson. In truth — to be 'punished' in some way. He comes here expecting to be punished, and he comes here expecting to fail._

Snape continued to stare at Potter for a moment, and then rose abruptly, ignoring the way his sudden movement caused the boy to flinch.

"Potter."

The younger wizard looked up warily. "Sir?"

"Follow me."

Pushing past the bewildered boy, Snape strode from the room, not waiting to see if Potter followed or not, simply assuming he would.

Snape _hoped_ he would, anyway.

He felt relieved when, a moment later, he heard the worn trainers fall in step behind him.

* * *

Bemused, Harry followed the potions master through the corridor. The man was walking very quickly, and Harry almost had to trot in order to keep up.

This strange action was, so far as he could see, so out of character for Snape that Harry had no idea how to react. Where was the man taking him, and why? Was there to be a lesson or not? Or had he decided Harry had done something wrong, and was taking him to Dumbledore?

Apart from the times he had been in trouble, the only instances in which Harry had accompanied a teacher from a lesson area was when, for some purpose or other, the lesson plan warranted it. His first Defence Against the Dark Arts class with Lupin came to mind; when the werewolf had led the third-years out of the classroom and to the faculty room, where they were to tackle a boggart. That had not been a particularly successful lesson for Harry…but his heart lifted all the same at the thought of Lupin, his father's friend. It was in Lupin's class that Harry first discovered his natural talent for defence. After that first lesson, he had sailed to the head of the class, outscoring even Hermione, by her own admission, on every exam. Defence Against the Dark Arts was where Harry shone, and his confidence and belief in himself were never so strong as when he was in that classroom — the past year with Umbridge aside.

The polar opposite, of course, to how he felt in Snape's dungeons. Not only did the man breathing down his neck make him nervous, Harry almost felt it was pointless to try, since Snape would fail him anyway. Harry knew that if he scored well on his potions OWL, it would be due to the potions master's absence from the exam more than anything else.

Snape stopped so suddenly Harry nearly ran into him. When the young Gryffindor looked up, he was surprised to see that they were standing at the door to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. _Strange coincidence_, he thought, more bewildered than ever. He looked at Snape questioningly.

The man gave him a sidelong glance, muttered, "The light is better in here," and abruptly pushed through the door into the classroom.

Harry couldn't argue with that. Now devoid of Umbridge's putridly pink personal touches, the freshly cleaned classroom was awash with golden light from the setting sun. The aged wooden floor and desks had a warm look, and shone with what smelled like lemon balm polish.

Snape strode to the front of the classroom, Harry following, and turned to face his student. He started to move toward the desk, then seemed to change his mind. Instead, to Harry's surprise, he pulled the desk chair out from behind the desk, setting it down just to the right of the desk, and sat facing Harry.

Harry couldn't remember Snape ever sitting in the presence of a student in a classroom setting, and he certainly hadn't expected him to do so now, when they were about to have an occlumency lesson. He stood in front of the older wizard uncertainly.

"Sit," Snape told him. His expression was unreadable.

Slowly, Harry obeyed, selecting a seat in the front row and lowering himself into it without ever taking his eyes off Snape.

For a long moment, there was simply silence.

Then, sounding much the same as he did when lecturing in class, Snape began to speak in his dry voice.

"Occlumency, Potter, is the art of defending the mind from magical invasion."

Harry frowned slightly, but said nothing. It was unlike Snape to repeat himself.

_But what do you know about him, really? _A small voice in his mind asked, reasonably enough._ You avoid him wherever possible._

He dragged his mind back to the surface, for Snape was still speaking.

"There are four levels of occlumency, Potter: first, expulsion, where the wizard being attacked forcibly expels the legilimizer from his mind. This is the most basic form of mind-defence, and in many schools of thought is not considered to be true occlumency at all.

"The next level is known as 'occlumency with seed.' The wizard defends his mind from attack by focusing his thoughts on a specific object or place — a teapot, perhaps, or a certain room. By focusing all this thoughts on the 'seed,' he effectively creates an image that will be seen by the wizard attempting to legilimize him, and nothing more.

The third level is known as 'occlumency without seed.' It is a more effective protection than occlumency with seed, which can be breached by a powerful wizard who is able to conjure a weakness in the seed image — for example, in the case of a wizard hiding his thoughts in a room he has visualized, the attacking wizard may envision a door or window that leads to the thoughts he wants to view. Occlumency without seed is the art of 'blacking out' one's thoughts altogether — the wizard attempting legilimancy on one successfully practicing occlumency without seed will see nothing at all, as though the wizard he is trying to attack were no more than a table or chair. This is a very difficult technique to learn, and, with very few exceptions, the highest level a skilled wizard can attain.

"Lastly, there is 'occlusion by diversion,' also known as 'occlusion by substitution.' This technique involves not only concealing true thoughts altogether; it involves constructing false thoughts intended to mislead anyone attempting invasion. This is highly difficult, generally only accomplished by a natural occlumens, and requires ability, subtlety, concentration, and ability to grasp many complex concepts at one time. You, Potter," Snape said, with a more familiar sneer, "having few of these talents, could hardly be expected to attain this level."

He paused here, then added in a less acidic tone, "Few could. Have you any questions thus far, Potter?"

Harry just stared at him, dumbfounded. Snape waited, then lost patience.

"Well?" Snape said irritably. "Are you grasping any of this at all, or are you content to simply sit there and gape at me like a half-witted house elf?"

Harry had literally dozens of questions, but indignation at the potions master's tone made one in particular bubble to the surface.

"Why…you…we've never gone over anything like this before. You're acting like this is our first lesson. What gives?"

Immediately, he saw that this was the wrong thing to say.

Snape stiffened and sat straighter in his chair. His eyes narrowed, and the mouth tightened with displeasure. He was silent for a moment, then said coldly, "You wish to learn occlumency, do you not, Potter?"

Harry bit his lip and looked away, struggling hard to contain his own anger. _As if this was my idea!_ He thought bitterly.

Harry was suddenly furious. Snape had just taught him more about occlumency in the last five minutes than he had all winter. Apparently the man wanted to act like last term never happened. Sirius was dead because Harry had been unable to learn occlumency after months of tutelage, and Snape was finally deciding to teach him properly now?

Harry suddenly remembered Professor McGonagall's admonitions about controlling his temper. He thought about how allowing his anger to reign over him had led him — and others — into trouble time and again last year. He forced himself to remember what was at stake. And, finally, he thought of Dumbledore:

"_I want you to try to find it within yourself to give Severus another chance at earning your trust and goodwill…Severus has been very hard on you, I do not deny it."_

Did that mean allowing Snape to skate over past behavior? That he, Harry, had to be the bigger person in this situation? He wasn't sure he could do it.

But he had promised Dumbledore he would try. Taking a deep breath, he turned back toward the older wizard.

"How far can I expect to progress then…Sir?"

It took all of Harry's resolve to speak respectfully, but apparently it was the right direction to take. Snape, who had looked to be on the verge of getting up and leaving, visibly relaxed.

"You have already progressed, Potter," he replied coolly. "You merely need to practice."

Harry stared at him. This didn't make sense.

"Hang on a minute," he said slowly. "How can I have…progressed, Professor? I never managed to…'expel' you from my mind, not all the time, anyway."

"It is true you were not…consistent in your mind expulsion techniques, Potter," Snape said carefully. "However, your…sporadic performance was, I think, a result of your approach. You attempted to resist the curse in the same manner in which one would resist the Imperius curse, which I understand you have shown some aptitude with in the past."

Harry was dumbfounded.

"But…but you said the principles were the same!"

"I said they were _similar_, Potter, not _identical_," Snape replied drily. "Clearly you are incapable of paying strict attention unless you choose to do so. At any rate, your skills at defending your mind from magical intrusion by expulsion are irrelevant, seeing as how you have already mastered occlusion with seed, and need only a small amount of practice in order to strengthen your ability and to be able to apply it at will."

Now Harry was completely bewildered.

"I…what? How do you figure that? I've never done the…occlumency with seed defence!"

Now Snape looked uncomfortable, and Harry noticed the man seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. He shifted his gaze to the right of the young Gryffindor, toward the window, but Harry suspected this was an evasion.

"As a matter of fact, Potter, you have. Unless I am very much mistaken, you did so yesterday." Snape's voice was deliberately expressionless.

Harry's throat felt tight. "When?"

"Yesterday afternoon…when your…esteemed relative entered your room—"

Harry stiffened. Apparent fascination with the window notwithstanding, Snape noticed.

"Yes — when your uncle ordered you to face the wall, I noticed your eyes take on an inward, faraway look, a telltale sign of—"

Harry's face went red, then white. Bad enough to know that Snape had heard everything that had transpired in his room yesterday, but he had not realized the man had also had a bird's eye view — or, rather, a bat's eye view.

"You saw—? But the cage was covered!"

Snape suddenly seemed angry.

"You have been instructed to call me 'Professor' or 'Sir,'" he said icily. "Do so. The cover of your owl's cage does not fit properly, Potter. Surely you noticed that. It does not meet in the middle. In the interest of your pet's comfort, you may wish to see to it."

Harry dropped his eyes to the surface of his desk. He felt sick with humiliation.

"Spare me your embarrassment, Potter," Snape said harshly. "You already knew I was present for what was happening. There is no difference from what I already knew, and it gave me no pleasure to be there, I assure you."

But to Harry, it was different, somehow. The thought that Snape had been an eyewitness to his degradation…his face burned. The fear that the man would share this information with his Slytherins was eased only by the knowledge that he needed to keep his status as a spy under wraps.

"Returning to occlumency," Snape said briskly.

Harry made an effort to fight down his feeling of shame and focus on what the man was saying in a more impersonal way.

"When your uncle ordered you to step up to the wall, Potter, I became aware of a curious detachment that came over your expression. Describe to me the direction of your thoughts at that moment."

Harry stared at him incredulously. "Well, obviously I was a little distracted, since I was about to be beaten to within an inch of my life. Sir," he added coldly.

"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" the potions master snapped. "I realize you were being hurt, Potter, yet you were able to refrain from displaying signs of physical and emotional pain in an overt way. Strength of will alone could not accomplish this, not for such a thrashing as I witnessed you receiving. Clearly you had emotionally detached yourself from your surroundings on an interior level. What were you visualizing when you were gazing at the wall…or do you expect me to believe that you found the crack in the plaster so fascinating as to be able to distract you from what was happening?"

Beneath the roiling surface of his indignation, a memory was trying to surface in Harry's mind.

He said slowly, "I was…thinking of a place."

"And you were able to visualize that place very clearly? Hear the sounds associated with it?"

"Yes," Harry realized. "Yes, I was."

Snape rose. "Stand up."

Startled, Harry complied. Snape walked to a cleared space of floor to the right of the teacher's desk, turned and faced Harry. He drew his wand from his robes.

Harry, eyes on Snape's wand, braced himself immediately. Snape seemed to notice this, and made a point of directing his wand toward the floor in a loose grip.

"Relax, Potter. I want you to close your eyes and visualize the place to which your mind turned yesterday during your uncle's attack."

Suddenly, Harry began to understand what Snape was driving at, and as understanding flooded his consciousness, he saw a strange flicker of emotion dart across Snape's eyes, then vanish quickly.

Harry closed his eyes and concentrated hard. Snape continued to speak.

"When I cast legilimens at you, you must conjure the image of this place in your mind. If you find yourself having difficulty with bringing it to the forefront of your mind while you are under attack, go back to a time when you used it to escape conscious thought in the past, and attempt to enter it via that door. Do you understand?"

For once, the man waited while Harry thought it over. Finally, the younger wizard nodded.

"Very well, then," Snape said. "Are you ready?"

Surprised, Harry nodded again. He was nervous, feeling himself tensing up, but he appreciated the chance to gather himself, instead of being taken by surprise.

"On three, then. One…two…three. _Legilimens_!"

Harry was plunged into a dark, swirling whirlpool of memory. Hundreds of dementors streamed across the lake…Sirius fell through the veil in the Department of Mysteries…Bellatrix Lestrange was torturing Neville…Cedric Diggory lay dead in the graveyard…

Desperately, Harry tried to bring the image of his safe haven to the forefront of his mind. The flickering memories rushing past were distracting him. He remembered Snape's instructions, and focused on an earlier painful memory.

He was seven. Uncle Vernon had him by the arm and was dragging him up to his room, which in those days was Dudley's second bedroom. The man's brutal fingers dug into the scant meat of the little boy's upper arm. Uncle Vernon roughly pulled his t-shirt over his head and ordered him to stand against the wall, palms flat against it. He warned him not to move as he pulled off his belt. He raised the belt, and then —

The memory melted away, and Harry found himself standing by the lake in front of Hogwart's castle. A sudden feeling of elation swept through him, and when he looked up to find Snape standing beside him, he forgot to be wary in his sudden feeling of triumph.

They were in almost the exact same spot they had been in reality earlier in the day. This time, however, it was much later in the day…and later in the year. The peace of the setting sun cast a golden light over the long, yellowing grass. The surface of the lake was smooth as glass, the castle reflected in it as clearly as a mirror. The only sound was from the trees, colorful with autumn leaves, swaying in a soft wind. Sunlight glinted off the water, dazzling their eyes.

Snape looked around carefully. A spark of curiosity lit his brooding eyes.

"This is where you come, Potter?

Harry nodded wordlessly, still too delighted with his own success to speak.

Snape studied him. "That memory…was that the first time you put your conscious thought into this place?"

Again Harry nodded, his eyes on the water.

Snape frowned slightly, looking puzzled. "How old were you in the memory we just viewed?"

"Seven. Sir."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "You were visualizing this place at the age of seven?"

Now he mentioned it, Harry realized he had. Distracted, he said, "Well…I guess so. I mean, yes, sir."

Snape frowned, eyes narrowed and thoughtful as he studied first Harry, then their surroundings. Then he seemed to decide to change the subject.

"You will note, Potter, the outer perimeters of your 'seed' or vision, has a subtle, almost watery appearance."

The potions master waved his arm languidly around. Now that he pointed it out, Harry could see that the scene did appear somewhat faded in places around the horizon, like a watercolor that has been blurred around the edges.

"Watch," Snape commanded.

The older wizard, eyes inscrutable, raised his wand and gazed at the fragile horizon. Harry followed his line of vision…and, at the same moment felt the familiar probing sensation in his head, while the watery edges of the world he had created seemed to _ripple_, the way the surface of a pond will after a pebble has disturbed its quiet surface.

At once Harry felt Snape leave his mind, and the picture he had created settled back into place. He stared around himself in fascination.

"You see how delicate this 'seed' is," Snape said calmly. "Now you must learn to strengthen it from dissipation before you can proceed to practicing occlumency without seed. What you have here would be enough to repel an ordinary legilimens, however…it is a large step forward in your occlumency training."

Harry was too stunned with this sudden success to acknowledge this, and looked around his self-made sanctuary with wonder.

"We have done enough for one day." Snape announced. He waved his wand abruptly, and the image of the lakeshore dissolved at once, leaving the two wizards standing once again in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

For a long moment, they simply stared at one another.

Snape seemed to be struggling with himself. Finally he said, somewhat awkwardly, "It was…a good effort, today, Potter." The potions master's mouth seemed almost to twist over the words, as though complimenting Harry took real effort on his part. "You…did well."

Harry was flustered. It was the first — the only thing even remotely approaching praise Snape had ever offered him. Harry felt bewildered and — oddly enough — embarrassed. An uncomfortable heat prickled the corners of his eyes and his throat felt strangely thick. He struggled to say something, seeing the teacher's eyes narrowing a bit.

"I…thanks. Thank you, sir."

Snape studied him silently for a moment, and his calm, reserved black eyes suddenly made Harry long intensely for Spartacus. He quickly avoided the man's eyes then, and told himself he would head up to the owlery to visit Hedwig the moment the lesson was over.

After a tense moment, something fraught seemed to pass, and Snape gave a slight nod. "Dismissed, Potter."

Relieved, Harry headed quickly toward the door. He had his hand on the knob and faltered slightly when Snape called, "Be here tomorrow evening at 8 o'clock for our next lesson."

Uncertain whether the sudden sensation in his stomach was disappointment or elation, Harry hesitated, but did not turn. He nodded without speaking.

"And Potter," Snape said, stopping Harry in his tracks.

Harry stopped and reluctantly turned, worried his silence had irritated the man.

But instead of rebuking him, Snape merely stared at him intently, black eyes like tunnels boring into the young Gryffindor.

"Tonight, before you sleep…instead of attempting to consciously clear your mind of all thought, envision your 'seed' — that is, the spot by the lake your mind has created as a refuge. Avoid all memory by instead concentrating on the physical sensations the place evokes in your mind…the sound of the water lapping on the shore, perhaps, or the wind in the trees; the feel of the grass under your feet or the breeze against your skin; the way the sun plays over the waves. Every time you feel a specific memory begin to intrude, choose a physical detail from your seed to dwell on."

Harry looked at him. "I understand, sir," he said finally, and slipped from the room.

"Good night, sir," he called back over his shoulder.

A beat. "Good night, Potter."

* * *

Sinking into the chair by the fire in his quarters, Snape let out a long sigh — the kind he would never allow himself to make in the presence of anyone else. He rubbed the bridge of his hooked nose with both hands, and then poured himself a firewhiskey.

He felt more drained from that hour-long lesson with Potter than he ever had subsequent to dealing with a classroom full of first-years on the first day of term.

Putting aside his natural inclination to be snide, as well as his knee-jerk reactions to the boy's marked resemblance so his father, in order to apply proven teaching methods had been no mean feat on Snape's part. It had been years since he last made such an effort to connect with a student, and the fact that he was attempting it with Potter, of all people, was downright galling. Snape was not a naturally patient person, and signs of fear and weakness raised his ire. The fact that he may have created those reactions in his students himself makes no difference to his own response to them.

Still…the techniques he had applied appeared to be successful. Removing Potter from an environment he clearly found intimidating to one in which he had tasted success in the past had confused the boy, but had caused him to relax despite himself. Snape holding back his natural acerbity had also had a positive effect. And, the potions master had to admit to himself, his own resentment at having to mollycoddle Potter had evaporated when the boy finally grasped the concept of occlumency.

Snape allowed himself to revel in the memory a moment. There it had been, finally…the look every teacher longs to see on the face of a struggling student: that sudden flash of insight that is the telltale sign that the lesson has made sense, and Snape had found himself thinking triumphantly, He's got it! before he managed to resume his customary impassivity. But he had actually felt pleased and…yes, proud of the boy. It had been no mean feat, his accomplishment this evening. And Snape was proud of himself, too, though he refused to acknowledge it — that and the fact that Dumbledore would be delighted when he made his report to the headmaster tomorrow morning.

The boy had been visualizing Hogwarts long before he had even learned he was a wizard. Interesting.

Putting down the empty glass, Snape rose and started for his bedchamber. Between the visit to Surrey and the occlumency lesson in its new format, it had been an action-packed day. He had, he thought, earned his right to relax.

That was when he felt the Dark Mark burn on his arm.


	5. Chapter 5

Heart in his throat, Snape snatched a handful of floo powder from the small earthenware pot on the mantelpiece and tossed it into the fireplace. A burst of green flames whooshed up the chimney.

"Albus."

Dumbledore's grey head appeared. "Ah, Severus…I had assumed you would choose to wait until morning to tell me the results of your lesson with Harry tonight."

Then the old man saw Snape's white face, and his cheerful expression faded at once.

"I shall meet you on the grounds directly." The head vanished at once.

Snape strode through his quarters to the storeroom and swiftly began to deposit assorted potions into the same wood-handled kit he had used the night before. Though there was no one present to observe his actions, he kept his face as expressionless as stone from long habit. His agitation, however, could be discerned from the way his long, sensitive fingers fumbled over the bottles, causing them to clink together disturbingly in the silent room.

He paused, clenching his slim hands so the fingernails dug into his palms, and concentrated on layering his mind, taking deep, calming breaths. He visualized his tension as a physical thing he could push through his veins and into his knotted fists, then slowly released by loosening his fingers. As his mind cleared, his fingers steadied, and he began moving around the room again, his actions now more considered and less rote.

_Assuming my status as a spy has not been compromised, the Dark Lord will expect me to have certain potions ready for him – he will assume that I have been here at Hogwarts, working on concoctions for him under the cover of preparing for next term, _Snape thought. His black eyes swept over the storeroom shelves.

_I can use potions from my school stores to meet his requirements,_ he thought with calculating detachment. _I will tell him I have been in residence at the school these past weeks, making use of my superior lab here. As for the depleted stores…well, my spy work is more important, and these will go toward maintaining it. I can brew replacements afterwards…presuming I am still alive, of course._

Snape allowed himself a small, rueful, sardonic smile, then, clearing his face and his mind once again, began using occlumency to construct the deceptive memories he needed while he continued to fill the wooden case with the requisite potions.

Having finished packing at last, Snape turned his wand to himself and transformed his robes into those of a Death Eater. Casting an unlocking charm on a small trunk hidden under the lowest shelf in the storeroom, he drew the trunk out, opened it, and removed a small black bundle, which he tucked under his arm. Then, stowing his wand away in his robes and hefting the wooden potions kit in his right hand, he strode from the storeroom, up through the lower corridors to the entrance hall, and through the heavy wooden doors onto the grounds.

As he silently crossed the grounds, a figure appeared beside him.

"Lumos," came a quiet voice, and a soft, blue light illumined Albus Dumbledore's grave visage.

Snape did not pause – he did not dare.

"Albus."

"My dear boy."

There was a pause. The two wizards knew full well – as they always did with every summons – that _this_ summons could potentially be Snape's last. His position as a spy had provided inestimable intelligence to the Order, but the danger to himself could not be over exaggerated. Voldemort may have found him out at last, and there was no way to know if he had or not. Snape must go when he was called or compromise his loyalties for certain. If the Dark Lord chose to kill him there was no way Dumbledore could intervene. To speak of it in any way would be to jar Snape's concentration needlessly – a concentration as powerful and necessary as that of a tightrope walker, precariously balanced above a deadly ravine sans net. The tension and dread of his position must be buried under layers upon layers of occlumency.

So Dumbledore said nothing, merely offering the silent support of his presence – a comfort far greater than the old man suspected, Snape thought.

At last they reached the point where Snape could safely apparate away. For the briefest moment the two men paused, then Dumbledore spoke.

"When you return, Severus…I have a new project for you. One I hope you will not object to unduly."

Snape stared at him, confused by the slight smile on the old man's face. Then he realized that Dumbledore was trying to reassure him by expressing his confidence that the younger wizard would return to him intact, and he smirked to himself.

"Whatever it is, Headmaster, I hope it will not involve babysitting Potter," Snape replied. "I'd far rather continue to play double-agent with the Dark Lord."

To his bemusement, Dumbledore laughed.

"But my dear boy, who says you cannot do both?"

A sudden mixture of exasperation and trepidation ignited at the back of Snape's neck, but he had no time to investigate the tease further. Glaring at the old man (and quite forgetting, for the moment, his imminent danger, which no doubt was Dumbledore's intention), he unwrapped the bundle under his arm to reveal his Death Eater's mask. Pulling the mask on, Snape touched the tip of his wand to the dark brand on his arm, spun on the spot–

And Dumbledore's smiling face vanished.

* * *

Snape did not need to concentrate on where he wanted to go; the burning Dark Mark would take him there. Voldemort had designed it so, as, with aurors about, he might need to change locations in a hurry.

Though he had had no idea beforehand as to the Dark Lord's current location, Snape had no difficulty in recognizing at once where he was. The narrow, moonlit lane before him, bordered by wild, low-growing brambles on the left and a high, neatly manicured yew hedge on the right, curved around to a massive, wrought iron gate. Though he could only catch a glimpse of the handsome manor house at the head of the straight, graveled drive beyond, an albino peacock strutting majestically past confirmed his first impression: Malfoy Manor.

A faint tread to his left put Snape on the alert at once. He whipped out his wand and whirled at once to face the potential threat.

He was face to face with another masked Death Eater. "Declare yourself," Snape said sharply.

The other wizard, who had not had time to draw his own wand, sullenly removed his mask.

"Yaxley," Snape said, lowering his wand and removing his own mask.

"Snape," the big man grunted. "Just get here, did you?"

"Obviously."

Yaxley looked up the curving drive toward the house and snorted. "I take it Lucius won't be joining us tonight."

Snape's lip curled. "Unlikely."

The two wizards approached the heavy, wrought iron gate warily. It appeared to be locked. Yaxley raised his wand to cast _alohomora_, but Snape seized his arm at once.

"Why not?" Yaxley demanded.

"Not such a fool, that's why," Snape snarled. _Merlin, it's a wonder some of these so-called wizards survive being Death Eaters!_

A low, unpleasant chuckle emerged from the darkness on the other side of the gate, and Fenrir Greyback approached the dark metal bars from the inside.

"He's right, Yaxley," the werewolf said lazily. "You'd be blasted to kingdom come if you tried. Raise your arm and approach.

"Which arm?" Yaxley asked stupidly.

"Which do you think?" Snape replied grimly, and, lifting his left arm in a kind of salute, he approached the gate, passing through it like it was made of smoke. Yaxley followed suit, and the three Death Eaters continued up the drive to the manor house, where they could see lights glinting through the diamond-paned downstairs windows.

The massive oak doors parted automatically to admit them into a large hallway with a magnificent carpet covering the stone floor. Snape and Yaxley followed Greyback along an entryway lined with pale-faced portraits whose eyes followed their passage. saying nothing, until they reached a heavy wooden door with a bronze handle. Greyback turned the handle and led the two men into the drawing room.

The first thing Snape caught sight of was his own reflection in the gilded mirror over the marble fireplace at the opposite side of the room. He was pleased to see that his pale face showed no fear or apprehension whatsoever. The next thing he noticed was that the ordinarily sumptuously decorated room had been cleared for space' most of the furniture had been pushed up against the walls to make room for a large, ornate, table, at which was seated more than a dozen dark wizards, among them Dolohov, the Carrows, Peter Pettigrew (twitchy as ever), and Narcissa Malfoy, looking pale and anxious, biting her lip. (Lucius, of course, was still warming a cell in Azkaban – and no doubt content to be there, with the dementors gone and Voldemort infuriated with him).

At the head of the table sat the Dark Lord himself, Nagini the snake draped over his shoulders. Voldemort stroked the serpent's sleek head with one long, pale finger. To his immediate left sat Bellatrix Lestrange. The space to his right was empty.

Even under his present tension, Snape was not one to lose his head. His dark eyes went first to Bellatrix's face, to gauge from her expression whether or not there was immediate danger.

To his relief (not that anyone would ever be able to spot it, the Dark Lord included), her eyes met his with a look of sullen resentment instead of the triumphant, sadistic glee she would surely be showing if she knew the purpose of this meeting was to expose Severus Snape as a traitor.

Of course, this did not mean he was off the hook, Snape knew – merely that, if he was in trouble, Bellatrix did not know of it.

"Severus. Look at me."

Because of Snape's position as a spy and the damage he could potentially wreak upon the Dark Lord, he was subjected more often than any of the others to these mind probes – indeed, must endure them at almost every meeting. Snape forced himself to calmly meet the scarlet gaze, his occlumency shields firmly in place. To call that intrusive stare intimidating was a major understatement – it was more akin to an earth-shattering violation. But Snape was a master of occlusion by diversion, one of the rare few to whom it came naturally, and he lifted his gaze to Voldemort's with unflinching confidence.

It seemed to go on endlessly. But Snape's shields held, and his substitutions remained intact: the Dark Lord saw only the potions lab at Hogwarts, with his most trusted spy working hard on the very potions he now carried in the wooden case in his right hand.

Despite his power as a natural occlumens, Snape knew that if Voldemort chose to put the whole of his magical ability into sifting through the potions master's mind, he could dispel the false memories and find himself facing a formidable shield instead, which would immediately arouse his snakish temper. This was where the Dark Lord's major weakness worked against him however. he was so arrogant that he would not believe that Snape had the power to deceive him. Thus, so far Snape was saved by Voldemort's own egotism.

Snape felt the Dark Lord withdraw from his mind as he sat back with a slight, sinister, and self-satisfied smile.

"Severus. Sit here." The spidery white hand indicated the seat immediately to his right. Bellatrix scowled in disappointment. "Yaxley, next to Dolohov."

Snape's throat loosened slightly, and he silently took his seat. He was not out of the woods yet – no one ever was with Voldemort – but if he played his cards right, he might just live to fight another day.

The Death Eaters settled into silence, most of them watching the Dark Lord with vague apprehension; a few with naked adoration (Bellatrix Lestrange, for one). Narcissa Malfoy, Snape noticed, kept her eyes on the surface of the table. Something about the way she was sitting gave Snape the impression that the hands she kept demurely in her lap were clenched tight.

"My Death Eaters." Voldemort's high, cold voice cut through the expectant silence. "This is an auspicious occasion."

The hairs on the back of Snape's neck prickled slightly at this.

"Today," Voldemort announced, leaning back slightly in his chair while continuing to stroke Nagini's scaly head, "we are adding to our number."

His scarlet eyes flickered to the left.

"Bellatrix. Bring our new recruit before us."

Bellatrix's ravaged face blazed suddenly into a mocking echo of her former beauty as she turned worshipful eyes to Voldemort.

"My Lord, it is my pride and my privilege," she breathed.

Bellatrix rose and hurried to the double doors at the far end the room. Opening them a fraction, she leaned into the gap, murmuring in a low voice. A moment later she drew back and returned to the table, leading Draco Malfoy by the hand.

Potter had enjoyed a much-needed growth spurt over the past few months, but he was still not as tall as the young Malfoy.

Snape froze, then told himself not to be a fool. It was not as though he had not expected it. From the day Lucius Malfoy's son had first entered Hogwarts, it had been apparent what path he intended to follow – what path he had been _bred_ to follow. There really had been no question that he would follow in his adored father's footsteps.

But it was still hard to see those eager, ice-blue eyes alight with triumph, fear, and adoration as their owner approached Voldemort, trembling with excitement and terror. It reminded Snape, painfully, far too much of himself – although the unkempt, neglected boy he had been, however, could never have presented so pathetically beautiful and innocent a figure as the handsome Slyterthin boy with the sleek blonde hair.

And as Draco knelt at the feet of his new lord and master, as he kissed the hem of his robes and accepted, with only a slight flinch, the searing pain of the Dark Mark branded into his left arm (a pain that was echoed faintly in the marks of everyone in the room), Snape looked away from the boy and toward his mother instead – and saw grief and despair in Narcissa's normally haughty and coldly proud face. Despair – and fear.

_But why fear?_ Snape wondered. _Surely there would be far greater reason to fear should Draco have chosen an alternative path. He would have been cast away at an early age, even as Black had been outcast from his family, and the Dark Lord would have hunted him down._

Then he understood. Narcissa feared that Draco would suffer for Lucius's failure to secure the prophecy this past spring; that Voldemort would deliberately use the eager boy before him, desperate to prove himself, to serve as the unknowing instrument of a diabolical revenge.

* * *

The ceremony concluded, Snape stood a little apart from his fellow Death Eaters in the majestic dining room, sipping at a glass of dark red wine and silently watching as Draco, standing tall and proud between his pale mother and gloating aunt, received the congratulations of the other Death Eaters much as a newly wedded groom would.

"Severus."

Snape flinched slightly and turned. Voldemort had noiselessly come up behind him. Nagini was not wound over his shoulders this time.

"My lord?"

"Walk with me."

Snape wordlessly followed Voldemort out of the dining room, across the entryway, through the doors and into the moonlit garden. Bellatrix watched them go sullenly.

The Dark Lord led Snape past the yew hedges to where the marble fountain was playing a gentle tune like a secluded mountain brook. The moon, veiled by thin clouds, threw his serpentine profile into sharp relief. He paused by the fountain; then, drawing his wand, cast privacy spells about the area in silence.

Snape dared not speak first.

The Order sympathized with their resident spy because he must spend so much time in Voldemort's evil presence, always on the watch lest he make the slightest mistake and reveal his true loyalties. What they did not fully comprehend was that it was not just his actions, reactions and words Snape needed to guard, but his every thought as well. Voldemort would, and had, attack his mind at any moment, testing him, and so Snape was forced to keep a tight grip on himself at all times. The knowledge that the dark wizard would take him apart, piece by agonizing piece, should he ever discover the truth, was a powerful motivator, but it did not help lessen the strain he was under. Often, after his return to Hogwarts, Grimmauld Place or Spinner's End after a Death Eater meeting, Snape so was exhausted as to be almost incapable even of speaking, and would need to sleep, heavily and dreamlessly, for a few hours before making his report.

Now he waited on the Dark Lord's pleasure, employing every mediation technique he possessed to keep his face and his thoughts guarded and serene.

Voldemort seemed to muse for a few moments, then turned back to the younger wizard.

"I'm giving Draco a…special assignment, Severus." The lipless mouth curved into a sinister smile.

Snape waited.

"I had planned to have him finish off the old fool," Voldemort continued.

Snape stared.

"You mean…Dumbledore, my lord? Surely the Malfoy boy is not capable of–"

Voldemort laughed – a high, cold, cruel sound that sent a pale peacock in a nearby shrub scurrying for cover.

For a moment, Snape wished he could join it.

"If he succeeds, Severus, so much the better. If he fails…well, can you imagine a more fitting punishment for his fool of a father?"

It was, Snape was forced to admit, a diabolical plan indeed.

"But I have a new assignment for the young dragon…and someone else in mind to take on the task of finishing Dumbledore once and for all."

Snape's throat tightened. He sent up a quick prayer to whatever god there might be that it wasn't him Voldemort had in mind for that particular job. His mind burned with questions, but he had long since learned that, where the Dark Lord was concerned, it did not do to try to rush him out of idle curiosity.

"I gather, Severus, that you have been in residence at Hogwarts these past weeks, instead of your home in the muggle neighborhood."

Snape was ready with his answer. "My lord, the potions you had requested are complex…my lab at the school is far superior to what I have to work with at Spinner's End."

"Well enough. I want you to return there, Severus. And then, when the time comes, I want you to escort Draco to Diagon Alley to purchase his school supplies."

Snape blinked. "Me, my lord? Surely his mother–"

"His mother will not be fit to accompany him on this particular trip," said Voldemort, a clear note of _Don't interrupt me anymore, will you?_ in his cold voice. "I need you there. It is in Diagon Alley that Draco will need to carry out the task that will initiate him once and for all into our ranks. He must not fail."

"And…what is this task, my lord?"

Voldemort smiled again. "I will keep that to myself for now, Severus."

Snape felt a flash of irritated frustration that he quickly squelched. First Dumbledore, now Voldemort. It would be nice to be something other than a pawn in this game of chess. But his irritation was a blind, a cover for the fact that he was very, very uneasy about this.

"When will I take Draco, my lord?"

"That will depend on information I get from Dolohov, Severus. I will keep you informed. For now…go."

He was dismissed.

Accustomed by now to such abrupt dismissals (and indeed, not eager to protract his time in Voldemort's fearsome presence), Snape bowed low, then backed away from the Dark Lord and disapparated.

* * *

Though long used to apparition, Snape's mental and physical exhaustion made him shaky, and that combined with the sudden release of tension caused him to stumble when he landed once more on the perimeter of the school grounds. Indeed, he would have fallen, but a strong hand gripped his arm just above the elbow, steadying him. Snape looked up into Dumbledore's concerned face.

"Headmaster…you weren't waiting here all night?" _It must be four in the morning by now. _

"I wanted to be certain you would have assistance upon your return – just in case," the old man replied. His face looked ravaged with worry, and Snape felt his heart warm.

"I'm all right, Albus…I have not been compromised."

Dumbledore squeezed his arm gently, then released him slowly.

"You can give me a brief report on our way back to the school, and then you must rest, Severus. You are well overdue."

Snape was not about to argue the point. During the course of the walk back, he filled the headmaster in on the nature of the meeting. The old wizard's face grew grave at the news about Draco, and he sighed deeply.

"How can I blame him, when he idolizes his father so? And yet, I had hoped he might be strong enough to make another choice. Well, there is still time for him, wouldn't you agree, Severus?"

Thinking of himself, Snape inclined his head. "But headmaster, this assignment…"

Dumbledore frowned slightly.

"Yes…Voldemort said you are to take him to Diagon Alley, but told you no more?"

"That is correct."

Dumbledore paused and gazed studiously at the castle, which had just come into view.

"I am afraid that without more information, our hands are tied at the moment," he said finally. "But we will continue to watch and wait. Severus, quickly before we go in – how went your lesson with Harry earlier this evening?"

"Progress was made, finally," Snape said drily, and Dumbledore beamed.

"Delighted to hear it! You see, Severus? I told you: when you put your mind to it–"

"I am a very, very good teacher, yes, you've said," Snape cut in impatiently. "I will go into it in greater detail tomorrow – or, rather, later today – but I would recommend, headmaster, that the boy remain here with us a little longer than you had originally planned."

He could see Dumbledore trying to contain his satisfaction.

"That might be arranged. The Weasleys will be disappointed, and I daresay Harry himself will be also, but in the interest of building on a good beginning it might be beneficial for him to remain under our combined tutelage until, say, his birthday at the end of July? Then he can enjoy a much-needed month-long holiday with his friends before school begins."

"That should do," Snape replied. "Now…what was this 'project' you had alluded to earlier, headmaster?"

"Too late, my boy! You shall have to wait until we have both had our fill of sleep – and I do recommend, Severus, that you sleep as much as you can. Good night."

Snape sighed. There was no arguing with the man. Besides, he _was_ exhausted. "Good night, headmaster."


	6. Chapter 6

_"My Death Eaters." Voldemort's high, cold voice cut through the expectant silence. "This is an auspicious occasion. Today, we are adding to our number."_

_His scarlet eyes shifted to the left._

_"Lucius. Fetch our new recruit."_

_"With pleasure, my lord," Lucius Malfoy smirked._

_The blond wizard rose and walked to the double doors at the far end the room. Opening them a fraction, he leaned into the gap, murmuring in a low voice. A moment later, Snape started in horror when Malfoy drew back and returned to the table, leading Harry Potter by the arm._

_The boy seemed taller, straight and slim as a young sapling in his black Death Eater's robes. His pale face wore a hard, almost fierce expression. Snape looked quickly into the boy's eyes. There was something not right about them…the pupils appeared to be mere pinpricks in a sea of vivid green, despite the dim light in the room. Power swam lazily within the green orbs like goldfish in a bowl. _

_The boy pulled his arm free of Lucius's hand and dropped to his knees before Voldemort. A wild, almost bestial expression of joy lit his thin face, making an obscene mockery of Lily's beautiful eyes. He leaned forward and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes._

_"My Lord, I seek only to serve you," Potter whispered in Snape's own voice._

_"Hold out your arm and look at me, Harry."_

_Tossing his head back to throw his long, tangled black hair out of his eyes, the boy obeyed. The bile rose in Snape's throat as Voldemort touched the tip of his wand to Potter's forearm and lifted one spidery hand to push back a stray lock of the boy's hair. _

_"Yesssssss," the Dark Lord whispered. "I can be your father, Harry…I can be your father in a way our own father never could be."_

_Snape heard a sob beside him, and, turning, beheld a pearly white ghost – Lily. _

_"Better he died with me that day than this, Sev," she moaned, silver ghost tears sliding down her translucent face._

_Stricken with terror and outrage, Snape lunged forward, intent on separating the Dark wizard from the boy, but the figures in black suddenly receded from him as though they had been drawn down a long, dark, echoing hallway. An excruciating pain ignited in Snape's arm, and he screamed out in anguish: "Nooooooooo–"_

He jerked awake, drenched in sweat, and with hammering heart fumbled for his wand on the bedside table.

"_Lumos_," Snape said hoarsely, and a comforting, soft blue glow lit the room.

Shakily he sat up in his large four-poster bed, one hand knotted in the midnight blue comforter. He rubbed the hand with the wand still in it briefly over his hooked nose.

_Damn…where in Merlin's name did THAT come from?!_

Once his breathing finally returned to normal, Snape glanced at the water clock on the mantel: 2:30 a.m. He sighed, knowing that he was far too keyed up to go back to sleep. Swinging his long legs out of the blankets, he stuck his long, bony feet into his slippers and reached for his robe. Maybe a tisane would help to soothe his jangled nerves.

Just over a week had passed since the Death Eater meeting. Snape had not been able to speak to Dumbledore about his proposed task, as the old man had disappeared on one of his mysterious journeys, leaving only a note with a promise to return on Friday (tomorrow – or, rather, today).

Settling himself at the small table in his kitchenette, Snape curved his long, icy hands around the comfortingly warm tea mug, elbows on the table's surface. He gazed unseeingly through the thin steam, wondering about his new assignment. But mostly, he was thinking about Potter.

Potter occupied his thoughts much of the time these days.

Their lessons had already fallen into something of a routine. Snape instructed the boy in occlumency twice each day – midmorning before lunch, and early evening after the evening meal. When he was not teaching Potter, Snape was in his lab, brewing, or in his quarters, reading. He availed himself of the informal breakfast buffet the house elves provided in the Hogwarts kitchen each morning, but for the other two meals remained in his own quarters. He also kept a closer eye on Potter than he was sure the boy suspected.

Potter had also fallen into a routine. After his morning lesson, he studied until lunch, then again after lunch until mid-afternoon, at which point he disappeared out of doors. Snape knew that these afternoon hours were taken up with visits to Hagrid, the quidditch pitch or the owlery. Often he would spend time by the lake, writing letters or simply gazing out over the water as it turned golden in the late afternoon. He would return to the castle to share his evening meal with Hagrid in the kitchen, have a lesson with Snape, then disappear into Gryffindor Tower.

And, during the small hours of each morning, Snape would transform himself into a bat, fly up to the window of the dormitory currently occupied by only one, and check to see that Potter was all right. Twice he spent the night hanging suspended from the eaves above the narrow tower window.

Snape tried to justify these nightly excursions by telling himself he was merely checking into the boy's safety: the castle was sparsely inhabited at present; Dumbledore was absent; and Potter, never particularly cunning, had taken to foolishly leaving the window open at night to admit the summer evening air. Naturally, he needed a protector nearby.

What Snape was too ashamed to admit even to himself was that, despite the fact that he relished his solitude;, he had grown accustomed to sharing quarters with the boy and did not like to have him far from his sight. The protective instinct that Dumbledore had nurtured in him had begun to take on a life of its own; it was no longer solely for Lily's sake, dearly cherished as her memory was, that fueled Snape's desire to watch over her son.

Now, sitting over his herbal tea, the potions master stirred restlessly. He had told himself he would not – _would_ not – go to check on the boy tonight.

The ticking of the grandfather clock in his living room seemed very loud in that silent space.

Pushing the mug aside, he stood abruptly. _Very well, it can't hurt to check on Potter…but I won't sleep up there, _he promised himself.

So telling himself, he dressed swiftly and left his quarters.

* * *

As Snape, now in bat form, alit on the stone windowsill of the six-year boys' dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, he was put immediately on the alert by a low cry issuing from within. Stiffening, he peered warily through the open space. An intruder? Was the boy being attacked?

He could just make out Potter's bed, third from the window. It was too stuffy to draw the bed curtains, and the boy had left them open, exposing the bed to the balmy, summer evening air. He had folded the blankets back, and Snape could see him now tossing and turning beneath the white sheet.

No attack, and not likely a vision, either. A nightmare.

Snape hesitated. Thus far, he had not entered the dormitory, though there was enough room for him to slip through the open window. The boy had often suffered nightmares at the Dursleys'; he usually awoke on his own. Snape waited for him to wake now.

But as the minutes edged by slowly, and the boy's distress showed no signs of abating, Snape slipped through the window and flapped over to the bed next to Potter's (which, unknown to him, belonged to Ron Weasley). For a moment he studied the shaking figure. A faint sheen of sweat on the boy's forehead was visible in the moonlight, and his face twitched as though he were trying not to cry. The vulnerability Potter did not display during his waking hours lay exposed.

Snape watched him, growing ever more uncertain, until finally a choked whisper decided him:

"Don't, don't, _please_ don't."

Unable to resist the hopelessness in the appeal, Snape made the short hop over to the boy's bed. Without waiting to think about what he was doing (indeed, if he thought too much about it he certainly would _not_have acted), he leaned forward and pressed the top of his furry head briefly against Potter's left hand where it twisted in the sheet. At the same time, he let out a brief, musical trill. The hand stilled. Snape drew away and waited tensely.

_If he wakes, I will never, ever be able to explain this,_ he thought nervously. _He'll be more distrustful of me than ever, and I…what a fool I am!_

But while the boy's eyes fluttered briefly, he did _not_ wake. Instead, he grew quiet. A slightly puzzled expression furrowed his brow for a moment, and he mumbled, "Spartacus?" Then, with a deep sigh, he turned onto his side and grew still, the soft touch of fur having apparently caused his dreams to take a lighter turn.

Relieved, Snape leapt lightly back to Ron Weasley's bed, then turned and, settling down onto the blanket, he regarded Potter's sleeping form. The boy's face was healed now from the ugly welt, black eye and split lip, but there was still something heartbreaking in his expression. What had he been dreaming about – the Dark Lord? His uncle? Snape himself?

If bats could smirk, he'd be doing it now, thinking of how stunned some people would be to learn that he, Snape, was able to give comfort to the hero of the wizarding world, the hero he had reviled for years. Then his amusement faded as he remembered that this was not true. It was not _Snape_ that Potter derived comfort from, but Spartacus the bat – and even then, only in his dreams; knowing now what – or who – the bat really was, the boy no longer trusted it.

Launching himself to the windowsill, Snape sighed a little. Dumbledore had warned him it would take time, and he supposed he ought to be grateful at how well things had progressed as it was. Certainly there was no longer anything resembling defiance or sullenness in Potter's look, tone or bearing when he came for lessons or encountered Snape in the halls or on the grounds. But over the past weeks Snape had learned to know a different Harry Potter: a Potter who was frank and open, kind and funny. Not since Lily herself had Snape been treated with such relaxed camaraderie by another person, and while he would have resisted it had he had the choice, he had grown accustomed to it against his will.

The memories this evoked of his free and easy friendship with the boy's mother made it all the harder now when he encountered Potter's polite but closed expression, and his new courteous but cool reserve. The boy had changed somehow; whether it had been Black's death or the events of the summer thus far, Snape could not guess, but he had suddenly become powerless to push Potter's buttons. The once-expressive boy seemed to have grown a cool, adult shell overnight; he listened to Snape attentively during the lessons, asked questions respectfully and with none of the impatience he had shown the previous winter, and endured Snape's customary insults and rebukes with equanimity, his face carefully expressionless, never deigning to answer back. But he was a closed book, and while Snape grudgingly admired Potter's heretofore unguessed-at ability to shut himself down so completely, it frustrated him to no end, for it left him no opening to get closer.

Indeed, Snape found Potter's new remoteness so galling that he often found himself behaving toward him with even _more_ than his usual acerbity, instead of less.

Now, just when he wanted to reach out to the boy in a more benign way, Snape had somehow lost his ability to get underneath his skin. He no longer wanted to hurt Potter, but he frequently found himself trying to do just that in an effort to regain his foothold on the boy's emotions. But for all the success he was making of the situation, he might just as well have tried to scale a glass wall. It wasn't as though Potter were defiant or disrespectful, either – indeed, Snape would have welcomed the familiar show of temper and frustration he had once been able to evoke with just a sneer. It was that now, Potter didn't seem to think much of Snape one way or the other.

It was very apparent from his wary guardedness that, while Harry Potter may finally have learned to trust Snape with his life, he had no intentions whatsoever of trusting him with his heart. Case closed.

Based on the boy's reaction just now, however, it seemed that, even if _Snape_ could not reach him, Spartacus could - on some level at least. What the bat had managed to achieve, could the man not also?

Suspending himself upside-down from the eaves above the dormitory window (and refusing to think of his earlier vow to _not_spend the remainder of the night there), Snape sighed to himself.

_Why do I even care?_ he thought, but knew that it was too late to turn back now.

* * *

Harry stared moodily at the serene surface of the lake, absently stroking Hedwig's smooth back.

It was early for him – like many adolescents, he had a tendency to lie abed late when allowed – but he had not slept well the night before. After a series of recurring nightmares interspersed with dreams of Spartacus, he awoke shortly after sunrise, suffering from a dull headache behind his eyes and a distinct distaste for company so strong, he skipped breakfast, unwilling even to talk to Dobby. He also deliberately bypassed the owlery (though Hedwig had caught up with him as he approached the lake, clouting him over the ear with one powerful wing before settling on his shoulder to show him just what she thought of being left behind).

Settling himself down in the grass beneath his favorite tree, Harry repositioned Hedwig on his knee and looked out over the water, absently noting the giant squid lazily sunning its tentacles above the lake's surface. The nightmare that had plagued him last night had been a reenactment of a most unpleasant confrontation Harry had had with Uncle Vernon last June.

Just over a year ago, when Harry had returned to Privet Drive only a week after witnessing Voldemort's return in the graveyard, Uncle Vernon had marched him straight up to his room, not even waiting for Harry to bring his trunk from the boot. Once upstairs, he ordered Harry to strip off his shirt, declaring his intention to punish him severely for the Ton-Tongue Toffee incident of the previous summer. Harry had responded by doing something he had never done before: he had refused.

It had not seemed to be a suicidal action at the time. Harry had just come from a year that ended with him facing down and escaping the greatest Dark Wizard of modern times after witnessing him murder a friend. The Dursleys might not love him or want him, he might have to do endless chores, but Harry was damned if he was going to put up with Vernon beating him anymore. As he flatly told his uncle this, Harry had felt tough, strong, and far older than his fourteen years.

Less than ten minutes later he felt as weak and terrified as a defenseless child.

Vernon, incensed by Harry's declaration of independence, had thrown down his belt and advanced on him, fists raised, mustache bristling, announcing that, if the "boy" felt he was too big to be thrashed, then he was big enough to fight like a man.

Harry had been game. The anger and frustration that became his trademark throughout that summer and fifth year boiled to the surface, and he gladly met his uncle head on, his own fists raised. He even got a few good shots in.

But his righteous anger and bitter grief could not change the fact that he was fourteen, small for his age, unable to perform magic, and much shorter and lighter than the grown man he faced. A black eye, bloody nose, split lip and several bruised ribs later, an utterly broken and half-conscious Harry found himself thrust against the wall, about to endure the whipping he had refused minutes earlier. And endure it he did, though in truth he barely felt it, so great was his shame and humiliation.

There had been no one there to reassure Harry that the shame – and the crime – had been Dursley's alone, a grown man challenging a young boy to a fistfight in order to subdue said boy and reassert the man's threatened authority over him. No one had been there to remind Harry that he had been accustomed from the age of one to being dominated and subdued by this man, his uncle. All Harry could think of was the, to him, incontrovertible fact that he had been unable to stand up to a muggle, yet was somehow expected to act the part of savior to the wizarding world. Learning about the prophecy less than a year later had only deepened his feelings of helplessness and inadequacy.

The words his uncle had snarled at him during their "fight," punctuated with blows, hurt far worse than the belt as it cut the shirt from his back:

"Don't think you're so tough now, do you, boy?"

"Think you're a man, do you? You're no man, nor ever will be. You're just a freaky _boy_ nobody wants."

"You're worthless, just like your miserable parents."

"Come on, then, if you want to fight…fight! You pathetic little whelp…"

Harry had not attempted to physically challenge Vernon again.

It wouldn't take a Seer to figure out the meaning behind his nightmare (though Trelawney probably would have misinterpreted it, anyway). Remus Lupin had once observed that what appeared to frighten Harry most was fear. This had been truer than he realized, for Harry _was_ afraid: afraid he wouldn't be up to the heavy task he had been born to. The prophecy had stated he had "the power to defeat the Dark Lord;" it had not said he actually _would_defeat him. And now, with Voldemort in the open, reports of deaths and disappearances appeared every day in the Prophet.

Each death felt as if it was his fault, for not stopping the carnage by challenging Voldemort.

Harry didn't want to die – as hard and painful as his life had been, as much as he had suffered from loss and disappointment, life and all it encompassed – love, friends, flying, school – was still too precious to him for him to want to give it up. But worse than his fear of death was his fear of loss, and of his own failure to prevent further loss. He felt far from ready to take on Voldemort, and doubted he ever _would_be ready. In the meantime, Voldemort would continue to destroy. Time to prepare was not a luxury Harry had.

How could he be expected to stop the most dangerous Dark wizard of the age if he couldn't even stand up to an admittedly well-placed right cross from his out-of-shape, muggle uncle?

Harry sighed and, removing his hand from Hedwig's back, pressed the heels of both hands into his eyes.

He did not want to die. But if his death meant the end of Voldemort, then perhaps –

No. He wouldn't go down that road. Sitting up abruptly, he began stroking Hedwig again. Tonight he would be accompanying Dumbledore on his errand to convince Horace Slughorn to return to Hogwarts; although Harry's visit to the Weasley's had been postponed so that he could receive further training from Snape (much to Harry's disgust), perhaps the old wizard would have some helpful advice for him regarding the tasks ahead.

Snape.

While he no longer suffered agonies of dread before heading off to an occlumency lesson, Harry remained carefully wary of the man. In truth, he'd never got along better with the potions master. This was not to say Snape was kinder or easier on Harry; on the contrary, he was as harsh and as exacting as ever. Nonetheless, Harry sensed something had changed.

The first thing was that, while Snape still seemed to loathe teaching Harry, he now seemed to be genuinely motivated to help him to succeed. Why this had changed,, Harry could not fathom. He might have thought the change came from pity on Snape's part (the thought made Harry's stomach clench up with embarrassment), or perhaps guilt over the way Snape had treated his student in the past, now that he knew Harry wasn't the spoiled prince he had believed him to be. But Harry dismissed this, doubting that Snape had any kind of a conscience at all.

No, it was far likelier that Dumbledore had told Snape about the prophecy. Knowing that Harry was the one who had to defeat Voldemort in the end, Snape probably had come to appreciate his own stake in seeing Harry succeed.

Harder to puzzle out was the difference in the way Snape insulted him. The man still audibly and often reviled Harry's intelligence, his fame, his father, and occasionally Sirius. He was as harsh and nasty as ever, but Harry found that the barbs were much less personal and – stranger still – interspersed with occasional, grudging praise. He wondered if it was because he himself was now approaching the lessons with respect, a determination to do as he was told, and to learn and achieve. As far as Harry was concerned, Sirius died because of his, Harry's, failure to learn occlumency. He was determined no one else would die because of a lack of effort on his part.

He sighed a little guiltily. He wasn't sure what Dumbledore would think of his efforts to get along better with Snape, but he was showing up on time for the lessons, doing everything Snape told him to do, and not being in the least cheeky. But it wasn't through any special effort of his own, he had to admit.

With the death of Sirius and the revelation of the prophecy, something had changed inside Harry. Snape's toned-down acidity he found to be more a cause for curiosity than relief; with such weighty matters on his heart and mind, mere insults could no longer touch him. He was truly serious and focused now, and, had he thought of it at all, he might have expected Snape to be somewhat satisfied by this (as satisfied as the man was capable of becoming by anything Harry might accomplish, at any rate). Strangely , though, Harry's seeming indifference to his acerbity that seemed to spur Snape to harsher criticism. His nastiness became almost desperate, and Harry thought ironically that, if he had only known how much it would drive Snape crazy, he would have learned to not be bothered by him years ago.

But it wasn't true that he was totally unbothered by what Snape had to say, despite the age and the weight Harry's burdens, new and old, had put on him. Since his very first class with the man, Harry had suffered all manner of insults from Snape, from barbs about Harry's parentage, his intelligence, his nature, his motives, more insults than he cared to recall. But no harsh word had shaken Harry as much as the one Snape had leveled at him the night he brought him to Hogwarts from Privet Drive.

_Helpless. _

It was how he had felt when Vernon had beaten him up. It was how he had felt when he had witnessed Sirius falling through the veil. And, Merlin help him, it was how he felt now when he thought of the prophecy.

What chance could _he_have against Voldemort? He felt like a mouse in the path of a charging hippogriff, while, according to the prophecy, the fate of the wizarding world rested on his shoulders. Dumbledore might have hope, but Snape had called it as he saw it – and it was how Harry saw it, too.

Strange that he should be thinking so intently about the man that he remained unaware of his approach until he heard his voice, low and dangerous, directly behind him.

"Potter."

Startled, Harry grabbed for his wand as he scrambled to his feet, unceremoniously knocking Hedwig off his lap; the snowy owl responded with an indignant shriek and flew off toward the owlery.

"Sir?" Harry gasped, brushing grass off his jeans.

"Do you realize what time it is, Potter?" Snape was definitely angry.

Harry automatically looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to ten – he should have reported for his occlumency lesson twenty minutes ago.

_Oh, hell, _he thought.


	7. Chapter 7

My difficulty here is an intense eagerness to push through these parts (which I consider build-up) in order to get to the action, but I'll ask you to bear with me, as I feel it would not do to rush through the development of Harry's and Snape's relationship. Problem is, their history is so rocky that it's taking time to get to them to a state of less-than-uneasy truce! I actually rewrote this chapter twice, with two different versions as to how their conversation would go, and this is the one I went with - I hope you all feel it works, too.

Thanks so, so much for all the supportive reviews, everyone. They inspire me to keep going!

Best,

Fawn

* * *

Though possessed with the patient cunning of a snake lying in wait for unsuspecting prey, in the case of prearranged appointments, Snape loathed waiting for people. Lack of punctuality irritated him in adult wizards and infuriated him in the students – he had been known to bar tardy students from the classroom if they arrived late to an exam. Having waited impatiently for Potter in the DADA classroom for fifteen annoying minutes, growing ever angrier, he had finally swept out of the castle in search of the errant boy.

Snape would never have admitted it out loud, but part of what fueled his anger was concern – had something happened to Potter? He decided to try the boy's favorite spot by the lake first, and when he saw Potter sitting idly beneath a tree, stroking his owl and staring out over the water, he felt a rush of relief , followed by bemusement that he now, against his own will, knew the boy well enough to guess his movements. Both realizations suddenly incensed him – Snape did not want to worry about this boy, or to know him well enough to be able to guess accurately where he would be. The realization, along with his genuine irritation at Potter's careless disregard for Snape's own time and convenience, had Snape fully prepared to be as harsh as he was capable of being with any student – let alone a Potter.

When the boy looked up, however, and Snape saw his thin, white face looking paler than ever, the vivid green eyes slightly bloodshot and ringed with dark circles of fatigue, he remembered Potter crying out in his sleep the night before, and part of his anger ebbed against his will.

But only part.

"Do you realize what time it is, Potter?" he said icily as the boy scrambled to his feet, brushing blades of grass from his baggy jeans. Potter looked at his watch and winced.

"Sir. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to lose track of-"

"I wonder, Potter," Snape interrupted him smoothly in a low, dangerous voice, "if you realize _why _I am giving up part of each day to the tedious task of instructing you? Remind me of why I am doing that, Potter."

"So I can learn occlumency," the boy said at once, but his response was all wrong. There was no stiffness or resentment in his tone, no helpless rage. No anger simmered, barely held in check, in the once-expressive green eyes - they looked as remote as they always did now. The familiar feeling of helpless frustration welled up in Snape along with a bitter desire to force a reaction out of the boy - _any _reaction.

"Correct, Potter. And dim though you may be during the term, when you have various other classes and sundry activities with which your feeble mind must struggle to keep up, one would assume that you would be capable of achieving some degree of success in meeting a mere two obligations per day."

Snape waited for a dark flush of humiliated pride to suffuse Potter's pale cheeks, but Potter merely watched him impassively, his face polite yet distant. Piqued, Snape continued, "Or perhaps your supreme sense of..._self-importance_" (he had been about to say "arrogance," but flashed back to Privet Drive and found he had not the stomach to use that term in relation to this boy any longer) "allows you to labor under the delusion that my time is not as worthwhile as yours, and that it is my privilege to wait upon your convenience." He finished in a slightly mocking tone.

"I don't think that, professor. I'm sorry I was rude," Potter replied, but Snape could see his thoughts were elsewhere, the words perfunctory and oddly formal. "I know you're very busy. Would you rather just skip this morning and I'll make sure I'm on time for the evening lesson?"

Snape felt like hexing him.

"Perhaps our lessons have come to an end, Potter," Snape, determined to get a rise out of him, said scathingly. "Since the death of your esteemed godfather seems not to have inspired dedication in you, then it is doubtful there is anything that would."

His insides squirmed uncomfortably at this blow, but he was triumphant, nonetheless, when the boy froze and gave him a cold, level glare.

_Now he will lose his temper, _Snape thought with satisfaction.

But Potter didn't. He simply stared at Snape with a look that was somehow guilty, angry, and...yes…_disappointed_. Then his expression closed off again, he shrugged slightly and turned away.

"If that's how you feel," Potter said indifferently, beginning to move off. "I've learned a lot from you already this summer, thanks."

Whether it was the shrug or the tone that infuriated him more, Snape could not have said. The words left his mouth before he realized he was going to say them.

"Like your arrogant father, Potter? Above such things as punctuality, I suppose, and no doubt you fancy yourself an expert occlumens now, and in no further need of teaching."

Potter hesitated, turning to face Snape. His green eyes ignited, very briefly, with an emotion too fleeting for Snape to identify. Then they went blank again. His shoulders dipped slightly, as though in defeat.

"I'd be sorry to think so, sir," the boy said colorlessly. "But if you won't teach me anymore, what can I say?"

"Above being taught by the greasy git from the dungeons, but not above taking a beating from your esteemed uncle without a word of protest, is that it, Potter?" Snape snarled.

It was a low blow, but he was rewarded at last when the boy blanched, his face twitching as though stung. Potter's eyes lit with anger, and when he spoke, his shaking voice was low, tight and fierce.

"I never asked you to come and guard my house. I never asked you to hang about in my room, spying on me and letting me think you were a something you're not. So before you go thinking about taunting me with what happened this summer, _sir_, you might want to remember that I know some things about _your _past, too."

Furiously, he turned on his heel and began to stride off.

Overcome with a sudden, vindictive fury, Snape raised his wand.

"Certain of your proficiency, are you?" he sneered. "Let us see how far you have indeed progressed – _legilimens_!"

All the force of his anger was behind the spell, and it caught the boy like a glancing blow across the skull, causing him to stumble to one knee with a brief cry, as of pain. Breaking through Potter's defenses was not nearly so easy as it would have been six months ago, when Snape had been able to enter his mind as though there were no barriers at all, and, even in his anger, deep down he felt a glimmer of pride at the boy's improvement.

Now, even caught unawares, Potter had begun to keep his "seed" in place all the time. It was still tenuous, however, and under the force of Snape's brutal intrusion , the golden vision of the lake shattered after only a brief resistance. He burst through the lakeside image and was propelled suddenly into what may have been the Gryffindor common room. Potter was kneeling on the floor in front of a fireplace, flanked by Weasley and Granger. In the grate, Snape saw the head of Sirius Black, who was telling Potter, in a voice of cold contempt, "You're less like your father than I thought." The head disappeared with a pop, and the boy sat white-faced and stunned, the expression in his vivid green eyes that of a child that has been unexpectedly, undeservedly slapped by a well-loved, trusted adult.

_Get out!_

A stinging hex across his still-tender shoulder jerked Snape out of the vision. He blinked in the sudden sunlight, eyes stabbed by the sudden transition from the nighttime scene to the broad daylight of reality.

Potter was on his hands and knees, breathing hard. As Snape watched, he lifted his wand hand to his mouth and bit down hard on the first knuckle of his index finger.

Snape remembered suddenly the night the boy told "Spartacus" how he feared he wasn't what Sirius Black had wanted in a godson. His stomach clenched.

Potter, meanwhile, slowly rose to his feet. Still breathing hard, he turned to face Snape. His head was slightly lowered, but his eyes, a little red and watery, were angry.

"You-" he began, his voice shaking – then stopped. He shook his head slightly and looked down.

Snape did not know what to say. He knew an apology was probably in order, but he hated to apologize, and anything he thought of to say sounded inadequate even in his own mind. He opened his mouth, hoping something coherent would come out.

What did, though, surprised even him.

"What had you done?"

The boy stared at him in confusion. "What?"

"That day you took me to your cousin's bedroom…what had you done that so enraged your uncle?"

Potter wore the same just-been-slapped expression he had shown in the vision. His expression tightened, and he again turned away.

"Do not walk away from me, Potter," Snape said in a dangerous voice, and Potter, probably more out of a habit of obedience than a real desire to hear any more, paused.

"You may spare me your wounded act," Snape went on in a bored tone. "I was not accusing you of anything. I merely wished to know why a young Quidditch star such as yourself," here he allowed his voice to grow mocking, and was gratified to see a flush of indignation color the boy's pale cheeks, "would feel compelled to submit himself to the abuse of an overgrown, out-of-condition brute of a…"

Snape faltered slightly. He had been about to say _muggle_, but some instinct warned him that Potter would take this as an accusation of weakness. "An out-of condition brute whom he could easily dodge," Snape amended.

The boy looked stricken.

"I – " Potter stammered, his anger forgotten, then fell silent. He sighed a little, his shoulders slumped a bit and he looked away. Snape merely waited.

"There was no point," Potter finally went on, his eyes staring unseeingly over the lake. "It just made him madder if I dodged, and he'd catch me eventually. I had nowhere else to go. He'd come after me with his fists, then…then I'd have the belt, anyway, so you see there was no point in fighting back. I'd be worse off than if I just…had it over."

He paused, and Snape sensed he was debating with himself whether or not to continue. After a moment, he did.

"I…he told me to bring him a cup of tea," the boy went on finally. "Dudley had left his trainers in the hall, and I tripped a bit and spilled some tea on the carpet. It wasn't much, just a few drops, but…Uncle Vernon was pretty upset about it."

Snape stared. A sardonic smile lifted the corners of Potter's lips slightly.

"So, he slapped me, and said I was a good-for-nothing like my parents. I'm usually pretty good at keeping quiet – at home, anyway – but my mouth jumped ahead of me this time and I told him off."

"And for that he whipped you," Snape said quietly.

Potter glared at him. "Well, it's not like it was the first or last time I've been punished for no good reason."

Snape had been so focused on the incident at the Dursley's that it took a moment for the boy's words to sink in properly. When they did, he was livid. Most people reddened when they were angry, but Snape was the opposite – he lost what little color he had.

"You compare me to a man like your uncle, Potter?" he whispered, obsidian eyes glaring into the young Gryffindor's.

The anger suddenly died out of the boy's eyes and he looked away. His reply was so quiet Snape almost missed it.

"No…no, not now."

Startled, Snape's anger began to ebb. It was perhaps this evidence of a change in the boy's attitude – however slight – toward him, that evoked a memory, suddenly, of a particular incident that had occurred late one August shortly before he himself had returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year.

He had been sixteen years old, about the same age Potter was now. His mother had been dead for nearly four years, and his father's abuse, which before had been limited to drunken rages, had grown to include a casual cruelty that spilled over into sobriety. Tobias had barked at his son to bring him a drink of whisky, and, en route to the elder Snape's easy chair with the beverage, the young Severus had stumbled over a piece of frayed rug, spilling a little of the drink on his father's sleeve.

_Pow_. Tobias's fist had flown out, seemingly of its own accord, and the younger Snape's nose was instantly spouting blood like a fire hose.

Tobias had lurched to his feet, his fists balled and his face dark with rage, and for one terrible moment Severus had been sure he was in for one of his father's full-fledged poundings, the kind that always left him in a quivering, battered and bloody heap on the floor, half-conscious, emotions and nerves in a hopeless tangle.

A look of fearful calculation spread over Tobias's face, and Severus knew he was thinking about the fact that his son would return to wizards' school in just five days' time, where his classmates, head of house, and formidable headmaster would be sure to remark upon any visible injuries he was sporting. Then the elder Snape's sense of self-preservation kicked in, and he went to fetch an icepack for his son, instructing him to hold it at the bridge of his nose to reduce noticeable swelling.

Potter must have caught something in the potions master's expression, for he was gazing up at him with a curious, questioning look. A feeling of unspoken kinship sparked between the man and the boy, and Snape had a sudden urge to share with Potter that day his father had broken his nose.

"I can remember," Snape began – then paused. While he hesitated, his natural reserve reasserted itself.

No. He would not share his past with this boy. He was an adult, a teacher; this adolescent was his student. He would not attempt to bridge the gap between their generations…he was not sure such a gap could or should be bridged. Surely it was there for a reason.

Instead he said, "You surely cannot imagine that your uncle's behavior towards you is justified?"

Potter quickly averted his eyes again. "No, of course not."

"It may please you to know that the headmaster has seen to the punishment of your erstwhile guardian," Snape told him.

Potter looked up, startled. Snape waited for him to press him for details, but the boy merely stared at him a moment. Then his bright green eyes darkened to troubled emerald, and he looked away.

"He shouldn't have done that," he said eventually.

Snape was stunned. He hadn't known what reaction he had expected, but it had certainly not been this.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, keeping his voice and face carefully expressionless.

Eyes on the ground, Potter sighed, raking his fingers slowly through his untidy black hair in an unconscious and utterly useless effort to tame it.

"I don't blame Professor Dumbledore for taking me there. It made sense, what with the wards and all."

He paused. Snape, sensing that he wasn't finished, said nothing, allowing him to think.

"It's just that…they didn't want me," Potter continued finally, not looking at Snape. It was as though he had forgotten the potions master's presence, looking off into space, thinking aloud.

He went on, "If they'd been different…or maybe it _I'd_ been different" (Snape's gaze sharpened at this, but the boy didn't notice)," maybe they'd have…you know, been glad to have me, and all that. But they weren't. They don't like my world and they don't like me, and I guess I can't blame them…anytime someone from our world was around them, they…well, I guess you could say it didn't turn out so well for them." He smiled grimly, but the look in his eyes was flat and empty.

Snape did not know what made him angrier: the fact that Lily's sister and her miserable husband had brought Lily's son to this state, or the fact that the boy, on some level, at least, _did_ somehow blame himself for the fact that his relatives did not love or want him.

"You do retain enough brains to know, Potter," Snape growled softly, "that your uncle's behavior toward you was both unacceptable and heinous, do you not?"

The boy looked up at him briefly through a thatch of tangled fringe, then looked away again.

"Yeah, I know that," he muttered.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause while Snape tried to rein in his feelings.

At last, he said, "Perhaps a morning off would be…beneficial. But do not be late for your evening lesson, Potter. It will be your last for ten days; it would behoove you not to miss it. And I will not be inclined to be so…_forgiving_ of tardiness a second time."

For a moment the boy stared at him incredulously, a mixture of emotions – surprise, bemusement, irritation, wariness, curiosity – playing across his face.

Finally, he said, "No, sir. Thank you, sir. I…I won't be late."

He hesitated, and for a moment Snape thought from the look on his face that the boy was about to ask him something. Instead, though, he shrugged very slightly, nodded once and walked away toward the castle.

Remaining beside the lake, Snape watched him go.

_You should have been mine, Potter…mine and Lily's._

He was startled by the thought. Did he mean that, really? He had never thought of being a father…his own father had done nothing to inspire him to want to take on the job himself.

Additionally, Snape knew himself to be a jealous, single-hearted person. As a child, he had had a dog; when it died, he refused to take another, even when his mother offered. So it was with Lily – it had always been Lily and only Lily, and when she died, all thoughts of a possibility for romantic love had died with her as far as Snape was concerned.

He had never thought about it before, but now he wondered…suppose he had made other decisions in life? Suppose he had won Lily's love, and they had married? Snape had never thought of having children with Lily, or anyone. He had thought only of possessing her. He had been jealous even of her girlfriends, and he had a feeling that he would have been jealous of his own children when it came to Lily's love. As for the kind of father he might have made…he thought of Tobias's blood in his veins and shuddered. No, fatherhood was not for him, nor he for it.

But, as he looked out over the lake (even as Potter had done earlier), Snape could not deny that he had begun to feel something for Lily's child…a protectiveness that went beyond mere obligation; a regard that a man might feel toward a much-younger sibling, perhaps.

Snape smirked at the thought. If Potter was akin to a little brother to him, it was only because Dumbledore had, consciously or no, taken on the role of father to them both. And despite the fact that Snape was a man no longer quite young, Dumbledore did have a way of making one feel like a child.

He sighed, impatient with himself, and attempted to shake these thoughts away. The strange events of the summer thus far had interfered with his ordered thought patterns; was it any wonder he was confused in his reasoning? It was a relief to know that the boy would be away for the next week, spending his birthday with the Weasley clan and giving Snape a break from his unsettling presence. Potter's absence would give him a chance to catch up on his potion-making, lesson preparations for next term, and wartime strategy-planning with Dumbledore. And if Snape was at all uneasy at the thought of having the boy away from his immediate vicinity for the first time in two months, it was only because he had doubts regarding the Weasleys' ability to provide him with adequate protection, and not because Snape would miss him.

So he told himself, at any rate.

He began striding toward the castle, determined to finish a particularly tricky healing draught before lunching with the headmaster in his office.


	8. Chapter 8

_Jeans…t-shirts…socks…_ Quidditch Through the Ages_…Firebolt…wand…_

Harry moved back and forth between the trunk at the foot of his bed and the sturdy rucksack on top of the covers, selecting things to take with him to the Weasleys' while choosing others to leave at Hogwarts. Packing in this way was a new experience – normally when he left one place to go to another he took everything he owned, leaving nothing behind. Despite the fact that he wished his week-long stay at the Weasleys' could be longer, it felt great to choose things to take and to leave like this – to leave things behind in a setting that felt like home, knowing he would be returning to them soon. It made him feel…safe, grounded.

When he came to his textbooks, Harry hesitated. Then, smiling, he turned back to his rucksack and zipped it closed, leaving the books in his trunk. Hermione would nag, no doubt, but he was all caught up with his schoolwork, he had only a week before he would return to the school and resume lessons with Snape, and he felt he deserved a break.

Besides, it was his birthday next week.

Next, Harry considered his invisibility cloak. Running one hand over the silky material, he frowned at it, thinking hard.

He had promised Dumbledore that he would respect the boundaries set in place for him – if for no other reason than that the protective enchantments cast over the Burrow had put the family to some inconvenience – so he would not need his cloak in Ottery St. Catchpole. And Diagon Alley…well, he'd be protected there, wouldn't he? Whether he wanted to be or not – Harry snorted with disgust, thinking of Ron's latest letter, in which his friend mentioned that an escort of some sort would be accompanying them on their trip next Friday.

He sighed. He wanted his cloak with him, but…after what happened at the Dursleys', and Dudley's attempted blackmail, he also wanted to know it was safe. There was no place safer than Hogwarts.

He put the cloak back into the trunk, closed and locked it, zipped up his rucksack, and set it by the door.

Later that night, when he and Dumbledore would stand together in the Weasleys' broom shed, and the headmaster would urge him to keep the cloak close at all times, Harry would say nothing. He would feel a slight twinge of guilt at not doing as Dumbledore said, but he would quell it with the knowledge that he could not have known his teacher's direction beforehand, and with the resolve to follow Dumbledore's directions to the letter once he returned to school.

Harry checked his watch. He had roughly half an hour before dinner. He toyed briefly with the idea of pulling out _Quidditch Through the Ages_, then simply stretched out on his back on the bed, arms folded behind his head and feet in their battered trainers hanging off the edge of the mattress so he wouldn't get dirt on the spread. He gazed unseeingly through the tall window in the stone wall. Remembering how he had almost lost his invisibility cloak make him think of Snape. Unwillingly, his mind turned to the morning's events.

He supposed he had every right to be angry with Snape over the surprise intrusion into his mind – furious, even. Truthfully, he had felt angry at first; in fact had been on the verge of telling Snape off – but then it simply hadn't seemed worth the effort. Harry was used to being treated roughly and unfairly by adults, and he had other things to worry about now – namely, the prophecy. And what, if anything, he was going to tell Ron and Hermione about the events of the summer (it was one thing to put off Hagrid, but he knew no story he could come up with would ever satisfy Hermione about why he was spending the rest of the summer at Hogwarts).

And anyway, he figured Snape owed him one, seeing as how Harry had invaded his teacher's memories last year.

No, what really stuck with him was the look on Snape's face when Harry had told him about what happened that day with Uncle Vernon…that, and the way Snape had started to tell him something, then seemed to change his mind.

What had Snape been on the verge of sharing with him?

Reluctantly, Harry's mind cast back to a memory of an occlumency lesson earlier in the year, a time when he had managed to repel Snape's intrusion into his thoughts, and instead found himself in his teacher's mind. Harry forced himself to recall an image he had deliberately tried _not_ to think about: a small boy crying in a corner, while a large, hook-nosed man had shouted at a cowering woman.

Obviously, Snape had been the child in that memory. The man's vicious reaction afterwards (despite the fact that Harry had only been following directions) bore that out. No doubt Snape had believed that Harry would share what he'd seen with his fellow Gryffindors, even as Harry feared that Snape would share events of the summer with his Slytherins.

The truth was that Harry had deliberately not dwelled on that incident because he didn't want to feel sorry for Snape…and he didn't want to believe that he and Snape, _Snape_ of all people, had anything in common.

But for one brief instant, he had seen a look of…_recognition_ in the normally inscrutable eyes.

Harry tried to quell the small dart of compassion blossoming in his heart. He argued with his own thoughts.

_If he's…experienced stuff like that, that might explain why he's such a prat._

"But I've gone through stuff like that and I'm not a prat…am I?"

_Aren't you? You got Sirius killed. You put your friends in danger. You deserve what you get. Besides, the Dursleys aren't even your parents._

"Well, at least I never got into the Dark Arts!"

_No, but you have real friends…it doesn't look like Snape had any._

"With the way he acted toward Mum, who could blame anyone?"

_Yeah, but he was embarrassed…how would you feel if a girl had to bail you out in that position?_

"I wouldn't have called her a 'mudblood,' anyway!"

_Well, you wouldn't, would you, being a half-blood yourself?_

Harry sighed and shifted position. It was unanswerable.

He spent the rest of the time before dinner gazing out the window.

* * *

"_Legilimens,"_ Snape whispered, pointing his wand at Potter.

At once, he found himself by the lake, within Potter's "seed" vision. Without waiting to give the boy a chance to collect himself, Snape at once began hammering at the walls of the vision with all the force of his own mind, trying to batter them down. They wavered, growing faint like a blurred watercolor, then solidified as the boy poured the force of his own formidable will into them.

Then, to Snape's astonishment, Potter began firing an almost continuous string of hexes at him.

A dueler of Snape's caliber was, of course, able to block each spell that came, but he understood at once what Potter was doing, and was suitably impressed: in forcing Snape to occupy himself with guarding against hexes and jinxes, the boy was distracting his opponent from attacking the walls of his seed.

After several moments of furious dueling, Snape withdrew from the vision, and he and Potter found themselves once more in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

For a moment he studied the boy, who was a bit flushed, breathing slightly faster than normal, and trying – and failing – not to look too pleased with himself.

"That was…acceptable, Potter," Snape acknowledged coolly, and was taken aback when his student colored with pleasure. He supposed it _was_ high praise, coming from him.

Covering his surprise, Snape pressed on quickly. "You have gained sufficient proficiency to mastering occlumency with seed in order to advance to the next step."

"Occlumency _without_ seed, sir?" Potter broke in, no doubt too caught up in his own success to remember, for the moment, how Snape detested being interrupted. The older wizard decided to pass it over this time, however.

"Not quite, Potter," he drawled, faintly amused by the bravado a little success can engender in a teenaged boy. "Though you may feel you have mastered the art of occlumency with seed, I doubt the Dark Lord will be so considerate as to attack you in a straightforward manner. When you return from your…_holiday_ next week, we shall progress to attacks on my part that are first nonverbal, then unexpected."

Unexpected, sir?" the boy asked uneasily.

Snape smirked. Well might he be uneasy!

"Yes," he said softly. "Rather than appointed lessons, we shall proceed to…surprise attacks."

Potter gulped.

"In the meantime," Snape went on briskly, I would suggest that you read up on nonverbal spells. Your new text books will have information on them in almost all our subjects, and I am sure that Miss Granger would be more than delighted to give you a lecture on the subject."

The boy snorted at this, and Snape fought to keep his lips from twitching.

"And each night, of course, before you sleep…"

"I'll clear my mind, sir," the boy promised. "I've already started dreaming of my 'seed' vision, just like you said I would, and the nightmares have stopped."

"Good," Snape replied approvingly.

An awkward silence fell.

"Well...it is nine o'clock. I believe that will be all for now, Potter," Snape said finally.

Potter nodded. "Well…see you next week, sir." He moved to the door, hesitated, and turned back. "Sir?"

Snape raised his eyebrows, waiting.

The boy looked unsure. "Sir…er…I wanted to ask you–"

He was interrupted by a knock at the door, which then opened a few inches. Dumbledore stuck his head in.

"Ah, Harry! Severus? I trust I am not interrupting? It is nine o'clock–"

"We have just finished, Headmaster," Snape said smoothly, mentally cursing the intrusion. Albus could not have known, but Snape had the idea it would have been interesting to hear what Potter had been about to say. "Potter...you are dismissed. Remember my instructions for next week," he finished.

Potter glanced at him briefly, gave a nod, and turned to Dumbledore. "Sir? I thought we weren't leaving until eleven..."

"We are not," the headmaster answered cheerfully. "However, I have a visitor with a few hours to spare before he must leave again, and I thought perhaps you would enjoy catching up with him while I discuss some matters with Professor Snape."

From the hallway came Remus Lupin's voice. "Harry?"

"Remus!" Potter's voice rose in a boy's glad shout; the gravity that had been surrounding him for the past several weeks dropped all at once, and he sprang toward the door. Before disappearing through it, however, he looked back once at Snape.

"I'll...see you next week, Professor," the boy said awkwardly.

Snape inclined his head. "Until next week, Potter."

But it would be longer than that before Severus Snape saw Harry Potter again, and under very different circumstances. Snape did not know this, however, or he might have leapt forward to restrain the boy, instead of watching him, with a twinge in his heart that was _not _ jealousy (so he told himself), walk away with Lupin, chatting animatedly.

Dumbledore shut the door behind them, and Snape shifted his focus to his mentor.

"Well, Severus...how go the lessons?"

"Well enough," Snape replied stiffly. He wished he had something to do with his hands, like fiddle with some potions essays to be graded. But it was summer, and of course he had nothing. He contented himself with sitting at the desk and steepling his fingers in front of him.

Dumbledore cast a silencing charm over the door, then moved to the window, gazing out over the darkening grounds. He paused a moment, then turned back to Snape, his features set in a look that said he was about to hand him a task he wasn't sure the potions master would like.

But when he spoke, he sounded as though he were merely continuing his line of questioning.

"I take it that Harry is making progress with occlumency, then?"

"Progress is being made," Snape acknowledged reluctantly (he did, after all, have a reputation to uphold). "When the boy applies himself he is capable of achieving. I, for one, will sleep better, knowing that he will."

"Well put," Dumbledore smiled. "I'm very glad, Severus, to see you and Harry reaching something of a rapport."

"It could hardly be described as a _rapport_, headmaster," Snape protested.

"It is a beginning," Dumbledore replied firmly.

Snape stilled. "A beginning?"

"Yes." Dumbledore turned to face Snape full on. "And now we come to the 'new project' I intimated to you ten days ago, Severus….I would like you to become Harry's mentor."

Snape stared at him, waiting for the blue eyes to begin their familiar twinkle. They remained deadly serious.

In the wizarding world, officially becoming someone's mentor involves a spell similar to the Unbreakable Vow. This is because, to wizards, a mentor/protégé relationship goes beyond that of a mere tutor or advisor – it is both those things, and more: the mentor becomes teacher, confidant, counselor and unofficial godfather/uncle to his protégé, cementing a lifelong relationship akin to that of a parent and child or older sibling with a younger sibling, a relationship that cannot be broken.

Though few knew it, Dumbledore became Snape's mentor after the younger wizard forsook the Death Eaters, with Minerva McGonagall serving as their bonder. Dumbledore himself had suggested it, and Snape, who would have sneered at the notion of ever needing such a relationship before Lily's death, had consented.

It was not a decision to be made lightly. A protégé remains subject to a mentor until death parts them; to attempt to break away from the relationship results in a diminishment of magical power on the part of the party seeking to end it. A protégé is not compelled to obey his or her mentor implicitly, but must always weigh the mentor's advice and direction with great gravity no matter how ludicrous the advice may seem. It is a relationship that demands total trust and a willingness to defer to and take direction from an older, wiser, authority figure – which is why, for a witch or wizard, choosing a mentor or protégé is almost as important as choosing a spouse.

For Snape, allowing Dumbledore to mentor him had been a profound relief. Never had he felt more in need of guidance than he did after Lily's death and the disappearance of Voldemort. Dumbledore had become the father-figure Tobias never was, and it seemed a luxury to Snape to lay his burdens at the feet of the old man. It was not always easy (_now being a good case in point, Snape thought wryly_), but it freed Snape from the awful responsibility of making his decisions alone.

Conversely, taking on the role of mentor meant taking on extra responsibility. In many ways, it was almost like being an unofficial parent. Worse still, as a witch or wizard had to be at least fifteen before he or she could take on a mentor, it was like being an unofficial parent to someone who had already become accustomed to thinking and acting independently.

There were so many objections to Dumbledore's suggestion that Snape didn't know where to begin. His own immense responsibilities aside, the fact that he was a Slytherin and Potter a Gryffindor highlighted one of them, the success of a mentor/protégé relationship often hinging on a sympathy of spirit. Dumbledore's largeness of soul and Snape's shell-shock after the first wizarding war had diminished these difficulties, but Snape was no Dumbledore, and Potter, despite his traumas, was not at the end of his rope.

Not to mention the fact that this was _Potter_ they were talking about! He, Snape, mentor to James Potter's son? It was ludicrous.

"Albus," he said finally, "you must be mad."

He waited for the laugh, but still Dumbledore remained grave. "I assure you, Severus, I have never been saner. After all, you cannot deny the boy needs a mentor."

"No, I cannot," Snape replied. "But I would be the last person either he or I would choose. As it is…I suppose the question is obvious enough that I do not have to voice it?"

"Why don't I mentor Harry myself?" Dumbledore asked. Snape nodded. "You know it is not advisable for a mentor to have more than one protégé, Severus."

"But it can and has been done."

"Yes, it can and it has. But in my case…" the old man hesitated, crossed over to a bench and sank down with a weary sigh. Snape moved to sit opposite him and waited.

After a long silence, Dumbledore went on.

"I do not trust myself, Severus. Harry's fate, and thus the fate of the wizarding world, rests on a knife's edge. I am doing all I can to preserve his happiness and his life, but, as you have seen, I am as capable of making mistakes even as the next man. In fact, being rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger."

He smiled mischievously, and Snape rolled his eyes. This was an old joke between them.

"At any rate," Dumbledore continued, growing grave again, "I feel my temptation where power is concerned could be very dangerous, were I to attempt to mentor Harry. He already loves me and looks up to me," here the old wizard's voice grew wistful. "I fear I would mold him into my own image, when he needs to grow as his own man."

Snape stared at him. "You are too hard on yourself, Albus," he said gently.

Dumbledore gave him a wan smile, then straightened. His tone became brisk.

"Whether I am or not is moot, Severus. The privilege of mentoring Harry is, alas, one I may not indulge in, however I may wish to do so. At any rate, I am not what he needs. You are."

Snape's laugh had a rusty sound to it, he used it so seldom. "I? You cannot be serious, Albus. Lupin –"

"Is a good man," Dumbledore interrupted. "And he will always be there for Harry. But he is not what Harry needs in a mentor. Harry needs someone who is stable, serious, controlled and skilled; he needs someone who is detached from what he is and who will help him to become what he needs to be."

"My position as a spy," Snape pointed out simply. He thought idly to himself that it was a testament to how far his relationship with Potter had already evolved, that he could weigh his arguments with such calm – that and the fact that the idea did not seem so abhorrent as it once would have done.

"That is to be considered, yes," Dumbledore conceded. "However, your time with Harry has been productive and successful thus far, and there is no reason why it cannot continue to be so. But we need not settle on this one way or another just now, Severus...were you to agree to it – and I will not insist upon it – I would not plan to perform the spell before the start of term. I merely ask you to weigh it seriously, especially while Harry is away from you this week."

With that, the headmaster stood up; Snape automatically stood with him.

"Have a good evening Severus." Dumbledore went to the door, paused, and turned back with a smile.

"Whether you want to recognize it or not, Severus, Harry has begun to trust you. I believe there is a great deal he can gain from such a relationship with you…and that there is a great deal that _you_ could gain from such a relationship with _him_."

With that, he left the room.

Alone once more, Snape sank down again on the bench, allowed himself a small sigh, and rubbed his burning eyes with the heels of his hands.

A light clicking sound from the window distracted him.

Looking up sharply, Snape eyed the window. He could see nothing, which was hardly surprising as it was now full dark, the oil lamps lighting the room reflecting off the window panes.

Warily, Snape rose and approached the window, wand in one hand, taking a candelabrum from the desk in the other.

_Tap-tap. Tap-tap tap. _

Holding the candelabrum aloft, Snape caught a brief and sudden gleam of scarlet, like two glowing rubies smoldering in the dark.

He opened the window, and an owl, black as midnight with glowing, blood-red eyes, drifted in, lighting easily on a nearby desk.

Snape caught his breath and froze. He knew to whom this owl belonged.

As he reluctantly approached, the somehow menacing and formidable-looking bird extended a leg toward him. When Snape carefully removed the small scroll, it ruffled its wings with a slight hiss and flew out of the window again.

There was no address on the outside of the scroll. Slowly, Snape unrolled it.

It was a very small piece of parchment. There was no salutation or signature…only a single line of text written in an elegant hand:

_Thursday next, 11 p.m._


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **

I begin this update with a three-part apology:

`1. First, I hope all those who have been keeping up with this story will please forgive the very long delay in updating. To say real life intervened with a vengeance just doesn't cover it - 2010 truly was a nightmare, between family illness and death, job loss, and a cross-country move. And that's only some of it. I really hope never again to have such an action-packed year, but of course we don't choose what life dishes out to us. At any rate, I don't meant to whine...I just want to say that, for the first half of the year, I didn't have the time to write, and for the second half, I didn't have the heart. I hope now to pick this narrative up again and find healing in the writing itself.

2. Most of you are accustomed to a word count that's about three times what this installment is. There are two reasons why this chapter is so short: first, I have up to this point been alternating between Harry's and Snape's point of view. This chapter introduces a third point of view, and, I felt, stands better on its own. Secondly, if I had waited to add the other "half" of the chapter that I plan to write, I wouldn't have gotten it posted until Sunday, and I just plain didn't want to make my readers wait any longer. You've been patient for so long, I'm sure you could have waited three days more, but I wanted to make a good faith entry, if you will; so forgive me for the shortness of the chapter and be assured that subsequent ones will have more substance to them.

3. Finally, I wish to include a warning for adult content. It's mild enough that I don't feel it requires a rating change, but I do want to warn that it has adult themes - nothing extreme; just one character's musings. It does not signify a change in the story's direction in future installments.

That's all. Please do accept my apologies for disappearing on you all for so long, and I am humbly grateful to those of you who stuck with me. :-)

Best,

FF

* * *

He had claimed Lucius's and Narcissa's suite of rooms for his own. They had not dared to object.

He spends many hours in the master suite's small sitting room, seated in a tall, wing-backed chair before the fire, elbows propped on the arms, long, spidery fingertips just touching in silent contemplation of the flickering flames. His wand lies on the small pedestal table to his left, within easy reach. Nagini undulates on the hearth, enjoying the luxurious warmth. At this moment, the fire offers the only light; he seldom uses another.

The opulent rooms are heavily warded, and it requires only a single, subtle change in the flames to alert him to the approach of a Death Eater. He even knows who it is before she knocks.

With the barest flick of the yew wand, he lifts the enchantments on the door. "Come in, Bella."

"My _lord_." She grovels at his feet, his most loyal Death Eater, except, perhaps, for Severus. Scratch that – his _most_ loyal Death Eater, period, when one factors in her amusing infatuation. Severus may be a shade less loyal than Bellatrix, but, unlike Bella, he does not fancy a potential sexual union with the object of his loyalty, and this makes him much more…reliable.

Witches, Voldemort thinks idly, are more volatile than wizards. It is one reason why he has had few witches in his inner circle over the years – that and the fact that their petty jealousies led them to attack one another. He seriously doubts that, at this late date, Bellatrix would be capable of suffering another female Death Eater for long, and would dispatch such a rival for his attention with all speed. As it was, her jealousy towards Severus was but scarcely reined in. That was well enough – Voldemort quietly played on such jealousies, not wanting his Death Eaters to become close enough to band against him, their master – but too much rivalry would upset the balance and minimize their effectiveness.

Voldemort surveyed Bellatrix dispassionately as she knelt in delightful submission before him, her head bowed so low that her forehead almost touched the hearth rug, straggly, black-and-white hair almost obscuring her wasted, haggard face. Azkaban and evil had aged her; only her pure blood would tempt a wizard of discernment now, he thought – even as his pure blood was all that drew her to Rodolphus Lestrange. That and his sadism, which rivaled dear Bella's own, of course.

No, her true lust was reserved for her master. And who could blame her, Voldemort thought – his power was far more alluring than any charm, any trick of eye or dress or movement another wizard might possess. He did not want Bellatrix, but that she should want him was only right and fitting and to be expected. It showed her good taste and her high aspirations. So long as she was content to pledge herself to him, reserve herself for him alone without thought of anything in return, like any devout convent nun, he was satisfied. Had she tried to possess him, he might have been bored enough to eliminate her, and her usefulness be damned.

Still…it was…_satisfying_…to know that she was his for the taking, if he so desired. Which he did not, of course – his body had been quiet these many years; ever since, in fact, he had begun to take steps to ensure his immortality. Even in his youth, his true lust had always been for power.

Still…no need for _her_ to know that. Her foolish lust gave him power over her.

"Well, Bella?" Voldemort asked coolly.

She shivered ecstatically at his use of her name in the diminutive.

"My lord," Bellatrix whispered, her harsh voice caressing the words in a way that was almost obscene, "I examined the muggle boy's thoughts, as you commanded. I fear you will not find them useful."

"That is for me to decide, Bellatrix," Voldemort's tone was silky, but there was a definite edge there that spelled danger.

"Forgive me, my lord," Bella said breathlessly, clearly reveling in her abasement. "You are always right. I know you can see far more than I can…perhaps you would care to share my thoughts, so that you may see it all for yourself?" She could barely disguise the eagerness in her tone. Most wizards shrank from being legilimized, but Bellatrix clearly welcomed the intrusion from Voldemort.

No matter. He did not care one way or the other, and it would certainly save time to see for himself, without having to listen to the witch's everlasting compliments. Voldemort raised his wand.

"_Legilimens_!"

And he saw, through her willing mind's eye that did not attempt to shut him out, everything she had extracted from the weak mind of the friend of the boy's muggle cousin. Potter's fight with the muggle boy. The sparsely furnished room. The shabby clothes. The endless chores. The bullying muggle man who did not hesitate to raise his hand to the boy. The way the boy himself stoically submitted to the treatment.

Stoic, yes...but submissive. That was suggestive, especially given the boy's thoughts that had driven Voldemort from his mind in disgust during the fracas at the Ministry weeks ago.

Traveling back even further, he saw the muggle boy joining Potter's cousin, along with other muggle bullies, in hunting Potter down – sometimes catching him. He saw Potter working endless hours in a mundane muggle garden. He saw Potter threatened and even cuffed by his muggle guardians. And he saw hints of more severe punishments on the boy's face and arms.

Withdrawing from Bellatrix's mind, Voldemort sat back in the wing-backed chair with a slight frown. Interesting. He cared not at all for Potter's petty sufferings. He felt…_displeased_ with the muggle guardians, both for daring to lay hands on a wizard child, and because they might inadvertently have killed the boy, whose life belonged to Voldemort. But they were not important – one day, like all muggles, they would be subdued.

Voldemort frowned still more deeply, wondering why the muggle-loving old fool had seen fit to leave the brat, whom he proclaimed to love, in the care of abusive guardians. Then he shrugged mentally. Again, this did not matter. What did matter was how this information could be used to benefit him, Voldemort.

While he sat in silent contemplation, his scarlet eyes fell once again on Bellatrix, still kneeling before him. Unmindful of her aching knees, she awaited his pleasure with bated breath, thankful just to be in his presence. Studying her, it occurred to him that it had been many years since he had bothered to be charming enough to inspire such devotion. As his power had grown, he had not wanted, nor had he needed, to manipulate others into giving him what he wanted – fear worked just as well or better.

"Leave me," he said abruptly.

A fleeting shade of disappointment passed over the witch's face. She bowed low, then rose and slowly, reluctantly left the room.

"Bella," Voldemort said quietly, stopping her as she reached the door.

She paused and looked back. "My lord?"

"Send Draco to me."

"Yes, my lord." She opened the door.

Again he stopped her.

"You did well, Bella."

She glowed. Her old beauty came back to her wasted face – almost.

"I live to serve you, my lord."

There were, of course, instances in which manipulation could provide results where even fear could not.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:**

_I'm back!_

_Sorry for the long delay in getting this chapter out. As you know, it's been a rough year for me. The last six months have been taken up primarily with getting settled into our new home (you can read about that on my blog). Additionally, I found this a very, very difficult chapter to write – it's a pivotal "connecting" chapter, the official end of the build up and the beginning of the action. As such, I've started it and restarted it dozens of times over the past several months. I'm not sure how it works even now, but it's done and I'm glad, because now I feel like I can move on to the fun stuff!_

_A couple of things to keep in mind before you read:_

_1. Sharp-eyed readers will remember that, in chapter 8, I included foreshadowing indicating that Snape would not see Harry when he next expected to, and that, when he did see him, it would be under different circumstances. Well, in this chapter Harry **do** see each other briefly. I apologize for the discrepancy, but I forgot I had planned this brief encounter when I wrote chapter 8.  
_

_2. You'll notice that some of the writing looks familiar. That's because I've lifted a good deal of text from chapters 6 and 15 of The Half-Blood Prince tweaking it to fit my own evil purposes. No copyright infringement is intended here; I'm not making any money off this. The reason I've done this is because, as you've undoubtedly observed, I've been trying to stick close as close to canon as possible while still creating an alternate universe. This is because there are so many characters and loose ends in the Harry Potter universe, and I want to keep what I like, fitting it in with the story I want to tell both because it works and because it saves me time in trying to cover everything. _

_3. Finally, this chapter is un-beta-ed. Not because I don't have volunteers, but because I've made you all wait for so long, I didn't want to make you wait any longer. I apologize for any errors and hope you'll point them out to me. In the meantime - the chapter's done, and I'm very glad. Onward and upward!_

_Best,_

_FF_

_P.S. For all those who have been asking…never fear, Spartacus WILL reappear! :-)_

* * *

"It wouldn't work, Albus," Snape said with finality. "It simply wouldn't work."

They were in Dumbledore's office. The headmaster was seated at his desk, leaning back in his chair with his elbows on the chair arms, fingers steepled before him. Snape stood in front of the desk, leaning on hands curled into loose fists against its surface.

Dumbledore merely raised his eyebrows, but Snape thought he detected disappointment. He fought down a rising sense of guilt and failure and went on impatiently.

"Don't look at me like that, Albus. You know full well it would not work."

"I do not know that, Severus," the old man commented mildly. "I do know, however, that you seem to be giving up before you have even begun."

Snape drew himself up angrily. "Headmaster, this isn't an experiment that can be tried, then abandoned if it fails. The mentor/protégé relationship is permanent, as you very well know. Potter and I have far too much history to attempt it. The relationship requires total trust. I have, due to the events of the earlier part of the summer," Snape said stiffly, "learned that the boy _can_ be trusted. He, on the other hand does _not _trust _me_, as you know."

"Ah, but Severus, look how far you have both come in such a short time! Harry no longer defies you, and I know he would trust you with his life."

"With his life, Albus. Only with his life." Snape paused, aware of how ludicrous that might sound to anyone else. After all, what trust was greater than this? But to a boy who was not in the habit of valuing his own life, but who did value his friends, Snape knew that the way Potter held himself back from him could be a severe detriment to the success of their becoming mentor and protégé. He did not know how to verbalize this to Dumbledore, however.

As it turned out, he did not need to. The old man sighed, stood up, and began to pace.

"I'm afraid that you may be right, Severus. Recriminations at this late date are, of course, useless, but it is regrettable your relationship with Harry has been so..._strained_ over the years. It took a life-altering event to change your mind about him; I fear it would take a similar upheaval to change his mind about you. That–or time, which we do not have."

The headmaster paused before Fawke's perch and sighed again. For several moments he stood pensively watching his pet. Then he straightened, turned back to Snape and said briskly, "We will put this issue aside, at least for the time being. Now, you said you had something else to report?"

Mutely, Snape handed him the missive he had received Thursday night. Dumbledore read the single line of text three times before handing it back, a grave expression on his lined face.

"Do you think this has to do with the task he charged you with at the last Death Eater gathering?" He asked quietly.

Snape nodded. "I do. I will report to him with the store of potions he requested, but I believe this is about my accompanying Draco Malfoy on his school shopping trip to Diagon Alley."

Dumbledore looked troubled, and Snape could not blame him. Voldemort was careful never to reveal the whole of his plans at once, thereby helping to ensure they remain secret as long as possible.

For the third time, Dumbledore sighed. He suddenly looked older than Snape had ever seen him. "I can only urge you, Severus, to expect the unexpected."

Snape inclined his head.

"I will attempt to be at your disposal when you must carry out this task," Dumbledore went on, turning to face Snape, "but this week I will be somewhat..._preoccupied _with a task of my own. It cannot wait, though I was rather hoping that _you _would be at _my _disposal while I was attempting to complete it."

Snape waited for Dumbledore to elaborate, frowning slightly when the old man refrained from doing so. Voldemort was not the only one who did not reveal the entirety of his plans at once, he thought ironically.

"And in the meantime," Dumbledore paused delicately, "regarding Harry...?"

Snape sighed wearily, drawing his hand over his eyes.

"It wouldn't work, Albus," he repeated. "It just...wouldn't work."

* * *

"It wouldn't _work_, Hermione," Harry said exasperatedly for the tenth time. "I'm telling you, it just wouldn't work!"

"But Harry, it's such an amazing opportunity!" Hermione was nothing if not relentless where learning was concerned.

"Hermione, will you give it a rest? Of course Harry would be nutters to magically bind himself to that greasy git for the rest of his life! He's had it in for Harry since first year," Ron punctuated this statement with a loud slurp as he polished off the peanut butter-and-strawberry ice cream (pronounced "revolting" by Hermione) he had bought at the small cafe near the apothecary's. Ron had roundly abused the treat for not coming from the now-boarded up ice cream place belonging to the missing Florean Fortescue, but that had not stopped him from demolishing it in under a minute.

It had been almost a week since Harry had arrived at the Burrow. Leaving Bill at home with Fleur, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had brought Ron, Harry, Hermione and Ginny to Diagon Alley to shop for their school supplies. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had gone to Flourish and Botts with Ginny to fetch everyone's school books, while Harry, Ron and Hermione, shadowed by Hagrid in the role of proud protector, headed over to Madame Malkin's for new robes. On the way, the three discussed their O.W.L. results with Hagrid – Harry and Ron lamenting their failure to achieve an "O" in potions, which would keep them out of Snape's N.E.W.T. class and subsequently Auror training. When Hagrid's attention was temporarily diverted to the large window of a an exotic pet shop in which a litter of what looked suspiciously like purple skunks with acid spray, Harry took the opportunity to tell Ron and Hermione about Dumbledore's proposal.

Ron had been properly horrified, but Harry was surprised (though perhaps he shouldn't have been) when Hermione enthusiastically approved the plan.

"Just _think_, Harry," she gushed. "Professor Snape is a really brilliant wizard, so skilled in potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts, you'd learn _loads_! And if you were his protégé and he was sworn to protect you, he might even let you into his potions class..."

Ron wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Come off it, Hermione! We're talking about a _mentor-protégé_ charm! Harry would be bound to that barking bat _forever_, don't you get it? Unless he wants to lose his magic, that is…"

Harry sighed. He was already sorry he'd told them.

Dumbledore had made it clear on the night before Harry had arrived at the Burrow that he felt Harry would do well to confide his troubles - _all _of his troubles - to his friends. Over the past week he had told them bit by bit about the Prophecy, about Snape picking him up from Little Whinging, about the private lessons with both Snape and Dumbledore, and now about Dumbledore's suggestion that Snape be his mentor. It was a lot to take in.

The one thing he had not yet been able to bring himself to tell them about was the Dursleys. Ron and Hermione knew the Dursleys did not love Harry or treat him well, but they did _not_ know about Uncle Vernon's...well..."punishments," for want of a better word. Harry knew in theory that he need not be ashamed before his friends, that they would never blame him. In practice…that was something else.

Besides…he truly didn't want to think about it.

While in the wizarding world, his true home, Harry avoided thinking about the Dursleys altogether. The thought of his friends' reactions - Hermione's tears, Ron's swearing - left Harry feeling cold. And it wouldn't end there - the rest of the Weasleys would be sure to find out, and Harry could only imagine Mrs. Weasley's certain tearful outburst, Mr. Weasley's quiet anger, the twins' murderous, mutinous plans for revenge. And Ginny. The thought of Ginny learning about it all made Harry wince.

Then there was the rest of the Order - somehow the news would spread, Harry was sure, and there would be pitying looks and an overabundance of kindness and promises of retribution. He would no longer be treated _normally_, the thing he desired above all else. And if the _Daily Prophet _were ever to get a hold of such a story...!

No. As much as he knew it would hurt them to learn he had not confided in them, Harry shrank from telling Ron and Hermione about what went on at the Dursleys', at least for now.

"Look," Harry said wearily as they drew near to Madame Malkin's, "I've pretty much ruled it out for now. I just don't see it happening. Snape may be on our side" – he said this grudgingly – "and I trust him with Order business, but I don't trust him the way Dumbledore says I'd need to, that's all there is to it. That's not something that can be…forced. Quiet," he ordered as Hagrid drew new again, cutting Hermione off even as she opened her mouth to protest. "We'll talk about it later, OK?"

"Migh' be a bit of a squeeze in there with all of us," said Hagrid, stopping outside Madam Malkin's and bending down to peer through the window. "I'll stand guard outside, all right?" So Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the little shop together. It appeared, at first glance, to be empty, but no sooner had the door swung shut behind them than they heard a familiar voice issuing from behind a rack of dress robes in spangled green and blue.

"... not a child, in case you haven't noticed, sir. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone." There was a clucking noise and a voice Harry recognized as that of Madam Malkin, the owner, said, "Now, dear, the professor's quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own anymore, it's nothing to do with being a child —" "Watch where you're sticking that pin, will you!" A teenage boy with a pale, pointed face and white-blond hair appeared from behind the rack, wearing a handsome set of dark green robes that glittered with pins around the hem and the edges of the sleeves. He strode to the mirror and examined himself; it was a few moments before he noticed Harry, Ron, and Hermione reflected over his shoulder.

His light gray eyes narrowed.

"If you're wondering what the smell is, Professor, a Mudblood just walked in," said Draco Malfoy.

"I don't think there's any need for language like that!" said Madam Malkin, scurrying out from behind the clothes rack holding a tape measure and a wand. "And I don't want wands drawn in my shop either!" she added hastily, for a glance toward the door had shown her Harry and Ron both standing there with their wands out and pointing at Malfoy.

Hermione, who was standing slightly behind them, whispered, "No, don't, honestly, it's not worth it."

"Yeah, like you'd dare do magic out of school," sneered Malfoy. "Who blacked your eye, Granger. I want to send them flowers."

"That's quite enough!" said Madam Malkin sharply, looking over her shoulder for support. "Professor...please..."

Severus Snape strolled out from behind the clothes rack, looking sardonic as ever.

"Put those away," he said coldly to Harry and Ron, "unless you _want_ to spend the first month of your sixth year in detention…always assuming the headmaster shields you from expulsion, of course," he finished with a sneer.

Until this moment, Harry had not realized how much Snape had eased up on him since they had returned to Hogwart's together from his relatives' house. Gone was sarcastic, but grave wizard who had carefully instructed Harry in Occlumency, and in his place was the malicious, sneering Snape Harry had known from first year on. There was no sign at all in the fathomless black eyes that anything more had ever passed between them. With a sick, numb feeling in his stomach, Harry felt as though the past six weeks might never have happened.

"Still think it's a good idea _now_, Hermione?" Ron muttered, but he backed down at once.

Eyes never leaving Snape's, Harry slowly put his wand away. His fingers were shaking, and there was a ringing in his ears.

"Come on," Hermione hissed. She tugged on his sleeve. "Let's do our shopping and get out of here."

"Smart choice, Granger," Malfoy smirked. The eyes of both Slytherins glittered maliciously as Madame Malkin shooed Harry, Ron and Hermione into the next room, then hurried back to finish Draco's fitting. She seemed anxious to get them all out of her shop as soon as possible.

Harry was so shaken by the unexpected encounter with Snape that he missed the appraising, yet somehow anxious look Draco was giving him.

For the next ten minutes, Harry and Ron busied themselves with trying on school robes while Hermione sorted through a rack of delicate dress robes. When Madame Malkin, who had apparently finished with Draco in the next room and was now pinning up Ron's hem, left the room to fetch her magical tape measure, Harry drifted to the curtained doorway, attracted by low, hissing voices from the front of the shop.

He peeked through the curtain. Snape and Malfoy, standing at the counter, appeared to be arguing.

"Listen to me," said Snape, his voice so low now that Harry had to part the curtain still more in order to hear. "I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco —"

"Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection! It's my job, he gave it to me and I'm doing it, I've got a plan and it's going to work, you'll see!"

"What is your plan? If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you ..."

"I have all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm not alone!"

"If you are placing your reliance on assistants like Crabbe and Goyle —"

"They're not the only ones, I've got other people on my side, better people!"

"Then why not confide in me, and I can —"

"I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!"

There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, "You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you, but —"

Harry had barely a second's warning; he heard Malfoy's footsteps on the other side of the curtain and jerked his ear away before Malfoy swept by and out of the shop, slamming the door behind him so that the glass rattled in the frame. Snape quickly tossed several galleons on the counter, grabbed the brown paper parcel out of Madame Malkin's startled hands, and hurried after him, his expression tight.

Harry remained frozen on the other side of the curtain, mind and heart racing.

* * *

Later, in Fred's and George's shop, Harry repeated to Ron what he had heard while Fred and George helped Hermione heal the bruise made by their punching telescope.

"So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely offering to help him?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "He said he'd promised Malfoy's mother to protect him, that he'd made an Unbreakable Oath or something —"

"An Unbreakable Vow." said Ron, looking stunned. "Nah, he can't have…are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," said Harry. "Why, what does it mean?"

"Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow."

"I'd worked that much out for myself, funnily enough. What happens if you break it, then?"

"You die," said Ron simply. "Fred and George tried to get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly did, too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything when Dad found us. He went mental," said Ron, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. "Only time I've ever seen Dad as angry as Mum, Fred reckons his left buttock has never been the same since."

"Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock —"

"I beg your pardon?" said Fred's voice as the twins, followed by a now fully healed Hermione, appeared around a display of Decoy Detonators.

"That's three Galleons, nine Sickles, and a Knut," said George, examining the many boxes in Ron's arms. "Cough up."

"I'm your brother!"

"And that's our stuff you're nicking. Three Galleons, nine Sickles. I'll knock off the Knut."

"But I haven't got three Galleons, nine Sickles!"

"You'd better put it back then, and mind you put it on the right shelves." Ron dropped several boxes, swore, and made a rude hand gesture at George that was unfortunately spotted by Mrs. Weasley, who, followed by Ginny, had chosen that moment to appear.

"If I see you do that again I'll jinx your fingers together," she said sharply.

"Mum, can I have a Pygmy Puff?" said Ginny at once.

"A what?" said Mrs. Weasley warily.

"Look, they're so sweet..."

Mrs. Weasley moved aside to look at the Pygmy Puffs, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione momentarily had an unimpeded view out of the window. Draco Malfoy was hurrying up the street alone. As he passed Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, he glanced over his shoulder. For a moment, Harry thought Malfoy had glimpsed him within the shop, but he gave no sign of it, and Harry thought he must be mistaken.

Seconds later, Malfoy moved beyond the scope of the window and they lost sight of him.

"Wonder where Snape is," said Harry, frowning.

"Given him the slip by the looks of it," said Ron.

"Why, though?" said Hermione.

Harry said nothing; he was thinking too hard. Judging by what he'd overheard in Madame Malkin's shop, Snape would not have let Malfoy out of his sight willingly; Malfoy must have made a real effort to sneak off.

Harry, knowing and loathing Malfoy, was sure the reason could not be innocent.

He glanced around. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were bending over the Pygmy Puffs. Mr. Weasley was delightedly examining a pack of Muggle marked playing cards. Fred and George were both helping customers. On the other side of the glass, Hagrid was standing with his back to them, looking up and down the street.

"Get around here, quick," said Harry, ducking behind a display of stink bombs near the front door. _Damn, I wish I hadn't left my cloak at Hogwarts!_

"Oh — I don't know, Harry," said Hermione, looking uncertainly toward Mrs. Weasley.

"Come on!" hissed Ron.

She hesitated for a second longer, then dove behind the display with Harry and Ron.

Nobody had noticed them; they were all too interested in Fred and George's products.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione slipped through the door as quickly as they could, but by the time they gained the street, Malfoy had disappeared just as successfully as they had.

"He was going in that direction," murmured Harry as quietly as possible, so that the humming Hagrid would not hear them. "C'mon."

They scurried along, peering left and right, through shop windows and doors, until Hermione pointed ahead.

"That's him, isn't it?" she whispered. "Turning left?" "

Big surprise," whispered Ron.

For Malfoy had glanced around, then slid into Knockturn Alley and out of sight.

"Quick, or we'll lose him," said Harry, speeding up, yet hanging back enough to ensure that they would not (he hoped) be seen. He did not know why, but he felt an almost desperate desire to learn what Malfoy was up to…and, by extension, Snape.

Why was Snape protecting Malfoy, when he had given Dumbledore to understand that it was his job to protect Harry? Harry told himself it was _not_ jealousy – it was not! – that had brought on the sick, hurt feeling he'd experienced in Madame Malkin's shop. It was that he needed to know – to _really_ know – if he could indeed trust Snape.

How tailing Malfoy would accomplish that he did not ask himself.

"Careful, he'll hear us!" said Hermione anxiously, as Ron, intent on keeping up with Harry, stumbled into a crate outside a darkened shop.

"You're right about that, mudblood!"

The rough voice came from immediately to their right as three figures emerged from the doorway of the empty shop - almost as though they had been waiting for them. Harry, Ron and Hermione spun around to find themselves facing, to their horror, McNair, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Fenrir Greyback.

Greyback grinned. "Well, well, well…look what we've found!"


End file.
